The first snow finally fell here today, weightlessly drifting in the middle of the street and completely failing to stick to anything. But even this failure is at least announcing that winter is here, driving the last of the warm temperatures safely off until next spring. I've been longing for those first little flakes for a few weeks now, patiently checking the weather models and hoping that this silly indian summer would finally give up the ghost. Today is that day, at last.
Winter is the only season that I am truly happy with. Bulky sweaters and coats will cover up perceived physical defects. The weather will make me feel like I am truly alive and outside, a shell of ice and slush to navigate. A lap full of crochet will no longer have an oppressive feeling to it, instead replaced with a warm glow. The electric kettle will once again be put to full use, creating hot beverages as quickly as I can consume them. I have waited all spring and summer for the first snow to come, and peeked out my window every morning in the fall hoping to spot some little patch of frost or ice. The last few days have been taunting me, holding out the possibility of coming snow only to back up it's arrival with every check of the weather map.
Right now, I am sitting here and looking out the window at the occasional few snowflakes that are falling and feeling happy. Finally, back to the cold that reaches out to grab me the second I walk out the door. Finally, slush and ice to turn the regular terrain into something more interesting. Finally, a squall while I am in the car, to remind me of the thrill of driving. Finally, that feeling that washes over me when I look down the front walk and see the sun reflect off of a land covered in a white blanket.
Finally. Welcome home.