Snow

Transcribed from a journal entry:

12/7/08, 3:30ish am, bed, home
Outside, everything is dressed in a thin mask of snow. It reminded me of that one Christmas we spent in Great Neck, where it started snowing a few hours after we got there. I stepped out the front door and stood, arms out, face and palms up, watching with the purest breed of joy. It was a miracle. Soft, fragile, enveloping. As though the sky were raining dreams. After a while I got cold, and went back inside. It was already night when the snow had started falling, so the scene I woke up to still held awezen*. I must have woken up early, because the streets were deserted. Or maybe people simply didn't want to be out in the cold. I don't know. But I remember the thick carpet of quiet bundled around everything, the trees, the pavement, the broken telephone cord calmly bisecting the street, as if it had every right to be there. The lampposts, the rooftops, but most of all the willow tree. Each tendril had its own delicate coat. The snow had preserved every perfect intricacy of the willow in pristine white. Like something out of a fairtytale. I remember explaining it to Nick last year, on that perfect afternoon where we sat at the window and watched the blizzard swirl, whirl, tumble, and flow about. Right after it snows, when everything is still carpeted in quiet - it looks like someone's face when they are sleeping.


*awezen - that which inspires awe