Snow falls differently for people. There are those who hate it, and hunker down indoors and bemoan the fact that they live in New England (or Minnesota or Ohio, or wherever it snowed) and now sunny Florida (or insert the warm climate of your choice).
There are those who resolutely (duty calls!) navigate the dangerous roads because at the end of their trip is a responsibility they cannot escape.
And then there are the children, who still believe in magic. Let me sit with them.
Snow falls on our seaside Connecticut town and changes everything. It blankets. It softens. It makes you forget the 30-car pile-up on I-91, and moves you to pour another cup of coffee. It also moves you, when you can’t watch a single other movie, outside to go for a walk down the middle of the street because no one else is out and the world is yours. It might even move you to walk to the beach to see the snow settling in to all the footprints of people enjoying warm days gone by.
It reminds you (that pile-up!) that what’s pretty for some is rough for others. Since I started writing about homelessness so much, I cannot enjoy weather events without thinking of people who are outside. This doesn’t make me holy but it does cut into my comfort just a little, and I guess it probably should. Even typing that last sentence makes me feel like a Puritan.
And yet: The morning after — Sunday — the sun came out and so did the snow blowers. The day after a storm always makes me a little sad. Show’s over. Let’s clear a path. Time to get back to our routines. Dang.