first snow.

8 Dec

My whole life I’ve lived in the North, and still, I find the first snow surprising. When wet flakes catch in the glow of  lampposts lining the street, I stop walking, tip my face to the light and look. I must never have seen it before. When I bundle on my coat and scarf and mittens, and I step outside, the stillness catches my breath. It’s tangled in bare tree branches, sidewalks and buildings. It rests heavy in the evening air. Into this silence, around, through and upon it falls snow–down, down, down to the frozen ground. When I’m driving home and snowflakes spiral toward the windshield, I drive through tunnels I’ve never been through one hundred times before. And as snow seeps through cracks in my scarf, and the space between my coat and mittens, sending tiny pin pricks into my skin, it feels cold in a way I’ve never felt cold before. Especially when I walk through the front door, brush off the snow from my coat and boots and hang them up to dry, and through the window I see the outside—snow falling through the thick, silvery stillness of a white, wintry moon—I know that I  must never have seen it before.

Everything, is new.

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