We wake up to snow piled on the outdoor table, still parked where it sat all summer. We were not prepared for this: two inches stuck on green leaves, quivering out of concerned trees. They weren’t prepared either.
“Mama, does this mean it’s almost Christmas?” my boy asks in his pajamas and I shake my head. It’s not even Halloween yet. “But, Mama, you said when it snowed it would be almost Christmas!” I know I said that. I was wrong.
Seasons exist for a reason. Snow is not supposed to sit on green leaves. They sag by the window.
We’re visiting my parents in the part of Texas that actually gets snow. (Though not in October!) I dress my boy in what we have: sweatpants, grandma’s socks, sneakers, lady cotton gloves, and a light jacket. He runs out back and sticks his hands in the wet snow. He needs help with the snowball smashing. I leave the baby playing on the living room floor, put boots over my cozy socks, a jacket over my pjs. We make snowballs and laugh.
I’m inside much sooner. What is it with little kids and their inability to feel cold? He doesn’t mind, comes in only with the promise of hot chocolate.
All morning I stare at those tree leaves. I feel for them. It’s hard to wake up to such a shock; those branches need their dry bones of winter to hold snow. But here they are living and aching with the weight. I want to help them, to bring out a broom, a hairdryer, my bare hands, and wipe them clean.
Of course, snow like this can’t stick long. After all, we were wearing shorts and t-shirts three days ago. The sun shoves itself out on them, a savior for the leaves just now turning orange. Everyone sighs. Especially the squirrels, who hoped they’d have a little longer to gather.
The boy stomps in the slush left in the driveway. The baby wears a brown fleece bear suit his brother perfected 3 years before.
I hold my hands out at the sky and wonder.
I’m feeling the “Just Write” again…