It sounds weird, but it’s the winter that always gives me hope.
Although I’m not a fan of the cold of it, I love the way fresh snow looks. Before people have walked through it, before it’s been shoveled out of the way or mixed in with dirt or churned up by tires. Before man does as it always does—make dirty and ruin.
The first time it snowed, even though we’re all big kids, everyone in my class ran to the window to look. Besides any drama or issues any of us have with each other, we’re all five year olds in that moment. Watching the first snowfall. Together.
I know, it sounds sappy. But it was really nice.
I love the way the sun sparkles on the snow on a cold, clear day. Walking home from the bus stop today, I went out of my way to walk in the snow piled up on the edges of the sidewalk. It was sparkling and pristine. It was fluffy and barely even crunched under my feet—I just sank down into it.
Later tonight, when it was dark and the street lights were on, I went to walk my four-year-old cousin Tessie home. It wasn’t her first snow, but it’s probably the first one she’ll really remember. It was too dark to actually see the snow—which has been coming down steadily the past several days—except for in the glow of the streetlights.
I asked her if she liked the snow. She started running and kicking it all around yelling “I love the snow, I love the snow!”
She caught a couple flakes on her little fluffy mittens.
I crouched down and pointed at the beam of light from the streetlamp, and asked her if she could see the snow falling.
She looked at it with the biggest smile on her face. “I love it. It looks like it’s falling from the stars.”