It’s midnight. Joseph had a wakeful night and I’ve just gotten him to sleep. To be honest, I’m exhausted. It was one of those days – Anne was rather miserable and whiny, quick to dissolve into tears, Brian got called out to a flood relief at nine in the morning and wasn’t home until nearly twelve hours later and then my normally sweet, pliant wee babe was a bear at bedtime. I felt rather frazzled. And tired. And pretty darn sure that two kids were enough for anyone, thankyouverymuch.
I wandered through the house, turning off the lights. Aching for my bed. Frustrated about the day. Full of regrets about my own impatience. Unplugged the Christmas tree. And glanced out the window.
It’s snowing.
Big, lazy, dreamy flakes, falling to the ground. I went out onto the balcony and breathed in. The crisp, clean smell of snow. I know that smell; I know it to my bones. When a book or poem uses the descriptor, “It smelled like snow” I know exactly what they mean. It’s in my soul; the bright, fresh, wet, pregnant, heavy, expectant coldness.
I was cold but, come on, it’s not Saskatchewan. It was just below freezing so I was quite comfortable to stay and just watch. The snow was falling lazily, reflected in the street lights. All the lights in the homes around us are out. The streets are quiet. Snow on the roofs. Branches laden with snowflakes. A beautiful, pure dusting over everything.
It’s magic. Plain and simple, homely and daily magic.
My exhaustion lifted. My self-pity disappeared.
I breathed deeply again.
Beautiful.
My tinies sleeping (finally!). Anne in her big girl bed, tangled up in her sheets, eyes buttoned shut. Brian, home at last and exhausted from a day of heavy labour, curled around our two month old son in our big bed, snoring.
The lights are out.
And I have just a moment to myself, one perfect moment, on the balcony, watching the snow fall in the darkness at midnight.
