There’s is a certain smell in the air, it’s elusive as it drifts across your nose, but as distinctive as fresh cut grass on a warm spring day. The smell conjures up a feeling of warmth and comfort despite the crisp temperature outside. I always looked for the house that could possibly be producing it, peering about for the telltale wisp of white smoke as it drifts from a nearby chimney. The fact I could seldom find it helped lend to the mystery of the moment. I often wondered whose home was lucky enough to have the warm comfort of a wood burning fire. Conjuring up times as a child, when I would marvel at the chaotic brilliance that issued forth from the grand fireplace in the home of my youth. I could always smell snow, it seldom disappoints, as being a harbinger of the beauty and magic that snow has always held for me.
The first flake permeates the dullness with its brilliant white, contrasting the cold gray background of a winter day. There is a calmness that comes over me when I see it. The silence, quickly broken by a ringing phone, I immediately know who it is. My mother often is looking at the exact same thing I am. her musical tone of “It’s snowing” never fails to bring a smile to my face. This is a deep connection I share with my mother, it is something that is ours and ours alone. Our love for the beauty and majesty that is snow. Quickly, I look at the temperature, the dampness of the ground, the telltale signs helping predict the elusive answer to the even more anticipated question. Is it sticking? The answer to this question often teases me, because it is not readily apparent at first. Much like a watched pot never boils, a watched flake never sticks. Going about my business, an unsolicited glance out the window confirms the answer. This moment in time, watching as a blanket of white covers the land with a pureness that begs to be unbroken.
The sound of snow falling to the ground is like the footsteps of angels whispering in our ears. The pure beauty of this time that only a picture in my mind can capture. I would gladly drift forever in this instant with the smell and sound of innocence and pureness. The cold air brings me back to reality like a planned awakening for this very purpose. Sometimes, rarely, this time, is befriended by the cheerful distant sounds of children, their gleeful excitement unable to be contained, bursting forth as the only thing that could accompany the perfection of the moment. There are few times like this in our lives where we can pause and just be content. Stopping and smelling the sweet fragrance of a glowing flower or listening to the wind maneuver through the trees, playing them like an instrument ushering a symphony of sound that ebbs and flows each time different and unique.
Waking in the morning, peering outside I wonder who was the one person who could not sit back and just let it be? The single track of tires going down the street, a scar on the face of perfection. Who was this person who left this scar breaking my image of purity? I often wonder if they know what they are doing, not allowing snow to pause their progress in life. Their inability to experience the beauty that so rarely graces our days with such bravado as snow. Unknowingly giving permission to others so that they too have a reason to mar this perfect beauty. It’s Inevitable, though, change, the moments in life never stay, ever mutating into other possibilities. For a long time, I resisted change, always wanting to hold close that moment that made me happy. I never realized or looked forward to the wonders that change offers, each second a new chance at another perfect moment. I often pause in my perfect moments knowing that they will slowly drift away in the river of time.