What Snow Means

At seven

I can remember waking up and feeling a stillness running all the way down to my seven-year-old feet. I would know it was snowing before I even opened the blinds. That's what I remember best--the stillness. Because, for once in a long while, no cars were rolling down the suburban streets, carrying lunchboxes, grammar workbooks, and Capri Sun. The minivans had all taken a day off, resting in the two-car garages, for once without caffeine-spiked drinks in their cupholders.

And we were on the couch, pajamas on and breaths held nervously in anticipation of seeing "Christ the King School" scrolling across the bottom of the screen. They couldn't possibly make us go to school, we thought, just look outside at those three inches of snow that coated our lawns like God himself had come down from upon high and spread the world with complete and utter joy.

So, boots on our feet and mittens on our hands, we went out. The only sounds we could hear were the soft crunching of the snow beneath our feet and the ice groaning heavily on the trees. A cold clarity bit at our ears and hurt our eyes. Our goal, looking back, was to destroy, to gloriously violate this peace, this purity, like pirates or Vikings. Raping and pillaging. Except, instead of pirate weapons, our ammo was snow angels, snowball fights, footprints and sledding.

Sledding. That was the best part, the possibility of real danger and the rush of adrenaline we felt as we were going slightly out of control, at the mercy of the snow gods.