My son announced with certainty this morning that he had just grown his first chest hair. He could feel it, he said.
Only at the same time I squinted and didn’t see anything resembling a future hair, my son pointed to the open blinds and beamed, “It’s snowing!”
And I suppose it was.
If barely counts.
I watched from the window as both kids tested the half inch of snow in their mouths. I noted their optimism in scoring more white snow despite our large dog trotting the perimeter with his leg raised. I waved from the back door as they knelt together to harvest our first snow crop for their snowman’s bottom. Which, looking around, seemed all he might have.
But there–two hours from the moment they clogged out of the kitchen with only their faces showing–stood their snowman. With three parts. And a piece of carrot from yesterday’s lunch hovering awfully close its right eye.
I have only to glance at the snow pants dripping in the laundry room and at this fading fellow in the grass to remember what joy the snow can bring. If not for me…for them.