The clouds can be of whipped cream… only if you want them to be.
The TV warns, threatens: “breaking news, blizzard alert, massive storm, eighty million in its path. Stock up! Batteries! Water! Snowpocalypse! Snowzilla!
But maybe it’s also just…cotton snowballs on gray winter boredom, a nose steaming up a frozen window pane. Young eyes upon white wonder.
Sure, curse winter storms when you can’t open your home’s door, when you can’t move your car, when Chinese isn’t eat-in or take-out…it’s just, out.
But do you remember when a stuck storm door was hilarious? When you didn’t even have a car to be stuck? Remember a bite of snow off a frozen mitten? The crunch under boots, a munching sound so new and curious and…funny?
Can you still feel your head tilted back, under a compulsory woolen hat? Your tongue chasing a falling flake? A snowman? Dad’s hat? Dad’s tie? Remember Dad?
And snow forts? No taxes, no death, no worries…all within a white stockade. A crawl though a snow tunnel? A belly-down slide, a face full of frozen fun.
Remember the scent of a woolen hat, wet gloves, socks, all drying on the radiator? Whipped cream clouds above a sea of cocoa? Dunk-softened oatmeal cookies? A fresh towel tussling your hair? Warm palms on cold cheeks. Remember Mom?
See also: http://wherethesundontshine.net