Dear Charlie,
Can you see our snowstorm from where you are? Do you remember last year I told you how horrible this season was for me? I have found it to be less wicked than usual this time around. The child in me has managed to rise above the woman and the crone. I hope there is still time left to play along.
Every year the same debate goes on, to buy into winter or not. Purchase some Kodiaks and Kanuks? If I were to have the proper accoutrements, would winter seem less of an obstacle? How shall we go out? Shall we slide down the twisted staircase on our bellies full of dough? Shall we jump off the balcony into the castle made of snow?
Children laugh out loud under falling snowflakes when they can, before it disappears again. To them, the cold and sticky makes is magical. Would you find that beautiful? Do you think children stop to look for beauty? Or do they simply move with what they love? Mmm... I doubt they even think of love. I hope they don’t. They should be busy magicians, caring only to transform the world from mud to ice then to sand, and back again. If they should have any kind of adult care, let it be to have papa on their team to keep the fort safe and strong.
Last night, walking home, I studied the traces left in the snow: the boot prints, angles, pressure, drags, slides and the forgotten objects that are now frozen in the banks. Since the first autumn snowfall, I have been listening to the sound of snow being crushed under my feet, instead of music. It’s nice to hear my own progression.
Can you see our snowstorm from where you are? Do you remember last year I told you how horrible this season was for me? I have found it to be less wicked than usual this time around. The child in me has managed to rise above the woman and the crone. I hope there is still time left to play along.
Every year the same debate goes on, to buy into winter or not. Purchase some Kodiaks and Kanuks? If I were to have the proper accoutrements, would winter seem less of an obstacle? How shall we go out? Shall we slide down the twisted staircase on our bellies full of dough? Shall we jump off the balcony into the castle made of snow?
Children laugh out loud under falling snowflakes when they can, before it disappears again. To them, the cold and sticky makes is magical. Would you find that beautiful? Do you think children stop to look for beauty? Or do they simply move with what they love? Mmm... I doubt they even think of love. I hope they don’t. They should be busy magicians, caring only to transform the world from mud to ice then to sand, and back again. If they should have any kind of adult care, let it be to have papa on their team to keep the fort safe and strong.
Last night, walking home, I studied the traces left in the snow: the boot prints, angles, pressure, drags, slides and the forgotten objects that are now frozen in the banks. Since the first autumn snowfall, I have been listening to the sound of snow being crushed under my feet, instead of music. It’s nice to hear my own progression.
Labels: Dear Charlie, turn me on
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