January 14, 2012

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  I woke up to snow and was secretly thrilled. I never thought I'd long for snow, but not having it has made me a strange sort of sad. Yesterday I traipsed around the city in the rain and would have given anything for some fat, white flakes instead. I feel a quiet glee when snow falls. It comes from suspecting that all the glittering front yards and driveways are not the product of science, but of some kind of sorcery - from feeling closer than ever to being let into the unnamable other world I am certain exists in tandem with my own. 

  And then today everything was white. Snow. I watched it blow in clouds across the tops of buildings, opened my window and breathed it in as it gathered on the sill. 

  Last year, when it snowed for the first time, I promised myself that I would spend every first snow of the year doing nothing but reading the Chronicles of Narnia and looking out the window, even if it meant I had to drop a million important things. I was only half joking when I said it. It felt like kind of a perfect personal tradition. Today I had neither the time nor the Narnia (I left most of my books at my parents' house), but wished that I had both.

  But I spent the first part of the day reading the book I did have (Karen Connelly's Touch the Dragon, which regularly makes me cry) and counting snowflakes, and by next week I'll be complaining about the cold but for now it feels like magic.

   

  h. 

   

   

  • 12:34 am
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