There is an eerie quiet that seems to fall over my world when the snow is falling and it generally means good things.
Years ago, I was about to leave to have dinner with my father and step-mother. The snow began to fall and with it our dinner plans were cancelled. I wanted to see them, but I was filled with glee from the cancelling of plans and the promise of a day in my sweatpants to come.
Even longer ago, the sound of snow falling at night meant no school, a day of frozen toes, wet feet, and desperately attempting to build a snowman out of 3/4 of an inch of wet, slushy sleet.
Four years ago, almost to the day, a date that had lasted nearly 24 hours was coming to an end...even though neither of us wanted it to. I told him that he had to bring me home. With a few pouts and extra snuggles, he finally relented and we got in the truck. As we went down the road, he held my hand tightly and assured me that this would not be our last date and in my heart, I knew he was right. I fought back a flood of emotions as I looked through the gray windshield and watched the tiny bits of white dust begin to fall. I heard it pelting the truck as we sped down the road, like being in a sand storm. I was disoriented, I could barely breathe, and I was elated. Snow was falling and so was I.
When the snow falls, I ache to be home. I crave the warmth of my handmade quilts and the comforting rub of pily sweatpants. Four years ago, my heart found its home in a snowstorm. Each winter, I crave the smell of the snow and the sound it makes when it snaps against the window, but I'm lucky that my home is now with me every day, sleet, snow, rain, or shine.