The stillness of the night is unbearably loud. Reflections of the streetlights from the falling snow trace lines of motionlessness around everything. Not even wind to disturb such a serene moment, as if even the air was afraid of being heard, of interrupting the moment.
I sit there, staring out the window. Everyone is in bed, every window dark. Not even the Christmas Lights glowing. The ground is dusted white, hinting at what might come before the sun rouses the world. I wish with all my might, a child's wish, a wish for a day's worth of fun. Of sledding, of snowball fights, of snow angels, of a day free of school.
It teases, as the flakes, pieces of heaven, come floating down slowly, glowing, reflecting light from those cement pillars, giving the light the personality that it seems to lack. The dusting stays a dusting, no sign of a change. Even the snow itself is unwilling to challenge the moment.
A gentle nudge wakes me, the familiar face of my mother, the smell of hot oatmeal. I climb out of bed, in my pajamas, and slide the shade out of the way to get a peek. My hopes collapse in a moment, as the dreams stay dreams. The beauty of the landscape, tinged white, is a treasure that I do not yet comprehend, pushed to the wayside by a child's dashed hopes for a snow day.