I have the opportunity, which comes every few years, to watch snow fall outside my window. It is gorgeous. Big flakes floating straight to the ground. We are expecting between one and two inches today, and I could not be more thrilled.
I am from the Midwest, but I have lived in the South for over half my life now. I have not had to shovel snow in 20 years. Yet, I miss the snow. I don’t miss the mess, but I miss the glory of the white and the newness. I miss the profound buffered silence of snow at night. I miss the crunch as it gathers on the bottoms of my boots and I make my way through it.
I realize how deep the weather of my memories is stuck to my bones. The harsh winters, the blizzards, the salt, the slush. I remember you all so well. And yet, I miss the snow. Not the hard parts but the promise. Not the near frozen toes, the need to store food and wood, nor the manic weather watching, but the crisp cold that is the harbinger of snow. The reflective quality of snow when the street lights are on or when the sun is out.
I realized why I am so happy to meet this snow. It is like a long lost relative, whom I love, finally getting a chance to visit my home and in my present. I get to recount stories and make new ones with my family and our guest. I feel like some of the goodness from my childhood is coming down from the sky and blessing me.
Today my children and I will go outside and play soccer while it snows. We will be silly, catch snowflakes on our tongues, and dance in this break from routine. We will make memories to match those of my long gone childhood. The seasons are the stuff that we are made of as much as the blood in our veins, and I am celebrating this fact.
So, welcome, snow. Welcome to the South. Put up your feet and make some new memories with us.