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.