squeaky snow

by rebecca on January 31, 2010

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Some Saturdays are for sprinkling Beauty Confetti, which is a way of thinking. I love it when it rains down on me and catches me by surprise.


            A spring snow is nice, heavy and wet and drenching the earth in a layer of hydrating goodness. The first fall snow is wonderful for the surprise it brings. But that deep winter snow when it’s really cold is the best because the snow squeaks.

            When I was a little girl, walking with my father in the super cold, I could barely talk behind the layers of scarves he’d wrapped around my face. My arms were held at a thirty five degree angle from my sides because of the bulky girth of sweaters and coats. But out we always went, into the cold, and what I always remember from those deep winter walks was the sound of the snow as it squeaked beneath our feet.

            It was the sound of cold and the warmth I felt in my father’s presence.

            To have a father who took me out in all kinds of weather was one of the luckiest things I owned as a child. Nothing put us off a walk in the woods where we visited with the tree fairies or gazed at an evening moon. We talked about the meaning of life while we grabbed and licked icicles hanging from rooflines.

            I made my breath a smoky fire in front of us. I wore mittens three sizes too big that only a father would purchase. I never remember the cold. I carry a fire in my belly that squeaky chill ignited.


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