The day before yesterday it began to
snow. As I was climbing into bed I looked out the big picture window that overlooks the main road in my town and watched these
big fat snowflakes float around like tiny
angels underneath the streetlamps. I thought about all the things I
love about winter. About the fine smells of
cookies baking and about
reflective orbed ornaments and about shining Christmas lights and
steamy hot chocolate and
obese snowmen and these fluffy snowflakes that you can catch on your warm
tongue. I felt
serene watching these big fat snowflakes. I felt a little
hope. That maybe there is
magic after all. That maybe I could catch ahold of one of those snowflakes and fly around in the quiet for a little bit. That maybe when it coats the ground fully I could go
outside, like a little child, and pretend I was a lost
eskimo. I could bundle myself as warmly as possible and wander around in the sparkling snow of the night.
When I woke up the snow had
melted.
I looked out that great big picture window and there was
backed up traffic and no snow. When I woke up to the bright morning I looked down at the
ugly oily concrete and
cursed because the god damned snow had melted. Because lost eskimos don't fucking wander around when the snow has
gone.