I believe in the magic of snowflakes. As a child, I can remember climbing out of my warm bed, putting both feet on the cold floor and running to the window praying that millions of snowflakes had fallen as I slept. I watched the television screen hoping against all hope that the name of my school would roll across the bottom of the screen. The anticipation was agonizing, as my parents had chosen to move into a school district that was always the last to report in. A day off from school in the midst of fresh fallen snow held so many possibilities. It meant spending the morning in my pajamas with my mom and my little brother, watching cartoons and eating french toast. Sled riding, icicle tossing and snowball fights with the neighborhood kids, occupied the afternoon. And as we came in peeling off our wet clothes and snow filled boots we were treated to moms’ hot chocolate and the best homemade marshmallows on the planet. Now that I am an adult, I look back on those days as with a newfound appreciation and longing. I understand that those days were magical because I had no responsibilities other than making sure my brother made it down the hill on his sled in one piece. As an adult, I believe that the magic of snowflakes has changed but it is most certainly alive and well.
Today, I am a mother, a college student, a sister, a daughter, a friend, a pet owner, a girlfriend and an employee. It is a challenge to keep up with all these roles on a daily basis. I look forward to the arrival of winter, as I know that it is just a matter of time before the snowflakes will begin to fall. The magical snowflakes will lift the burden of everyday life from my shoulders for a few short, precious hours and will afford me the opportunity to recharge and recuperate.
I look forward to hearing my own son run to the window and declare, with great zeal, that it snowed a million snowflakes as he slept. In honor of the traditions laid out before me so many years ago, I will declare it pajama day, watch Spongebob Squarepants and make french toast from scratch. In the afternoon, we will sled down the biggest hill and throw snowballs until we can no longer stand the whipping, chilly wind against our faces. The best part of the day will be bundling up, in clothes still warm from the dryer, to make the two-block trek to my mother’s house for a cup of hot chocolate and homemade marshmallows. On the way home, I will treasure the wonderment in my son’s eyes as he holds my hand and dances to catch the snowflakes on his tongue. And as I go to sleep, comforted by the memories created that day, I will pray that there is magic left in the snowflakes; enough magic to keep the snow from melting.
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