The kids are excited about the prospect of waking to a snow day. I remember those times. There was a street light across from my house, and I'd stare out the bay window watching the flakes fall against the reflection of the lamp, waiting for them to intensify. When they fell fast and heavy and blew sideways it was a good omen. Sitting in a cold kitchen drinking warm tea, waiting with great anticipation as the announcer's voice rattled off school closing numbers from the crackling transistor radio. A collective cheer arose when the digits were confirmed. I remember it like it was yesterday. The snow day brought everyone out on our street. Everyone shoveled. The highway's din was muffled and replaced by the scraping sound of metal against concrete. Ultimately, a snowball fight erupted, and the memory of seeing dads versus moms versus kids trying to pummel each other, white bombs sailing overhead and smashing, the giddiness and laughter echoing all around, is one of my best. There is something about going home, even in these memories, that always feels right. I guess that is true for all things right. You are drawn to them. They never leave you.
No comments:
Post a Comment