Storm – 12.2

I would stay up later than my eyes could stay open on days we were anticipating a snow day. (And this is as an adult — not just when I was a child!) Every few minutes my fingers would slide in between the venetian blinds, separating them, to peer out into the night. I knew the best vantage points to see the snow — from the kitchen window we could see across the street to the light on at the fire station. Our front door was perfect, if the outside light wasn’t burnt out.

If the sky had a reddish tint to it, I knew that it was still snowing. If it was merely plain old inky blue, then the storm had most likely passed, and I would have school in the morning.  Sometimes, when the wind was forceful enough, we could actually hear the snow plopping in clumps against the window. We learned to both anticipate and tune out the rattling of the snow plows down our side street.  Until it was the man coming to plow out our driveway– and we hadn’t moved the cars yet. Frantic, arms flying around finding clothes to throw on to get outside before the plow truck left mountains of snow to shovel away had we just arrived outside in time to move our cars. . .

Hours later, after the welcome interruption of my shrill text alert message letting me know I don’t have school, our arms are sore (well– the adults’ anyway) and our faces red from shoveling. The kids have made slides down the huge snowpiles and their laughter carries over the air straight into my heart. I capture the moments in my mind, knowing that this is our last winter in Maine, and that blizzards will be far between, and that snow drifts that are 8 feet tall are about to be a thing of the past.

And soon the storm outside is nothing but a memory . . .