snowflakes that stay on my nose and eyelashes
I'm a seventh-generation Floridian (did you know that there was such a thing?) who subscribed to Yankee magazine when she was eleven. When I was eight and visiting family in Buffalo I pogoed up and down on my cousin's bed and marveled that she wasn't absolutely flabbergasted and thrilled at that white stuff falling from the sky. When I attended graduate school in Chicago I trudged a mile each way to class in the snow and loved everything except the icy cold on my ears. And even now--even after the startling snowstorms we had last year in Pennsylvania--I adore the snow. It reminds me of my late father, the Buffalonian who couldn't escape to Florida quickly enough. It reminds me of my first winter living in Arkansas when I played so long outside that I nearly developed frostbite. It reminds me of the Coleridge poem "Frost at Midnight" and how thrilling it was to receive an A from the teacher I idolized in college when I explicated it. It reminds me of how precious and fleeting the seasons of our life are (after all, could a Florida kid who wanted to be a Vermonter be terribly happy-go-lucky?). Most of all, though, it reminds me, as I watch my own daughter frolic in the snow, to hold onto childlike glee and wonder whenever I can.
[See previous "framed" features here.]