Gently fall the little child size snowflakes; it is as likely to be an introduction to a bigger chapter in snowfall history. Silent night of shadows, outlined plowed white mounts. Quiet is the chiller air that will dominate the months ahead. Through Christmas and New Years—a spirit in the air. Such gifts—such hope as emphatic as the tinkling of ice in the glasses.
Morning snow sparkles out miniature diamonds into the daylight. No two crystallizations from the heavens are alike, a celebration of that very sameness within our own populations.
Fragrance commercials for men dominate the airwaves—do we really smell that bad to warrant scents to mark our territory? My father’s life long aroma was Chanel for men as I lay flopped in his lap while he taught me how to read in newsprint column inches. These many years later I am using a much increased vocabulary surely based on the one Father made patient time with me so as to write a novel—my first book. A certain pride might spill out of his eyes if only he were cognizant enough. My mother should be mentioned here whereas I got my openness to unconditional love from my father while I got my backbone from my mother—this I know to be true. Everytime we talk on the phone she is asking, questioning and encouraging me in this novel writing and she tells me I must do it every day. Backbone.
The snow continues to fall ever so lightly and I catch some on my tongue and make midnight snow angels. Since there is not a single star to be seen I parlay my nightly star bright wish onto the moon. Still yet silence; street lamps; sleep.