I can’t help but peak out the window on snow days. I try not to be so cliché, but it’s out of my hands. The cold weather brings warm memories.
I am just under four feet tall when I hunch over the window sill to admire the white sky. We lived in a building at the time, and could see the entire length of Manhattan from our ninth floor apartment. I have the attention span of a gold fish, so I don’t stare for too long. I dash into the kitchen where my mother is preparing dinner. I want to ask her if I can go outside and play.
She has a bit of a temper on stressful days, but I am too young to realize this. I beg at her knees for at least an hour. My father steps in through the door dusting snow off of his mustache. He looks like the snow man I want to build. With this in mind, I know he’ll want to play outside.
I was right. I slip on my boots and help my sister with her gloves. She’s only excited because I am, I don’t think she understands the concept of a snow day. I am eager to teach her about snow ball fights and snow angels. I want her to be just like me when she grows up.
I have flash backs of building that snow man, recalling our lack of carrots. I remember our neighbors building other snow men that were bigger and had noses, but ours was more special. My daddy and I built that snow man. My sister helped a bit. We were happy and care free. I lived in a world that only existed as far as I could see. A world whose problems didn’t faze me.
Today I am not as naive, I am over four feet tall, but I still peak out the window on stressful days like this. I don’t have the same drive to build a snow man, but I am blessed with the memories. I drink my hot chocolate and sit beside my card board fireplace. When life begins to faze me, I can still admire the beautiful picture behind the curtains.