It snowed all morning; the soft fuzzy kinda that doesn’t stay for very long and is quite safe to drive in. My roommate napped and I stared out the window, almost convinced I was eight years old again and ready to put on my snow pants and boots. Sweaty hair under my hat, red cheeks exposed, snow smuggled into my gloves, and my brothers as the best playmates on a January afternoon. Grey clouds still bursting with snow and no sun to be felt anywhere. King of the mountain and sledding down a golf course causeway and daring to imprint the world with fallen angels. Finally inside, melting all over the carpet before reaching the gas hearth. Hot chocolate in ridiculously small mugs that stack perfectly during the summer months with a black and white movie of mommy’s choosing.
Similar to evenings in June, January afternoons remind me heavily of days I didn’t know I cherished until now, miles away from my childhood home. My friends berate me for loving these cold days when it hurts to breathe and the sugar snow melts all over your clothes, but I’m a sucker for tangible nostalgia.
My black and gold boys are playing Denver as we speak, and I hate being away from home. It’s stupid events like football games and snowflakes that make me ache so for the rest of my freckle-faced family.