Brevity

Last week I wrote over here in response to a prompt about the words 'snow day'.  It was odd to write about snow because while the country has been blanketed in white, the first breaths of Spring are all around me in the blossoms on the trees and the green shoots peeking up from my bed of Cannas.

I've yet to have an official 'Snow Day' in my teaching career.  This year it's snowed twice, once in the first few minutes of 2011, when my New Year's kiss was still fresh on my lips.  The second batch of snow arrived as I drove to work, flurries splattering on my windshield and dusting the sidewalk.  I took my little ones out on the patio attached to my classroom and we caught snowflakes on our tongues and blinked off crystals clinging to our eyelashes.

For many of my little ones, it was their first time seeing snow fall.  Sure, they've seen it on the ground on skiing trips to Mt. Shasta and they've seen snow falling on tv, but most of them had never seen feathers of snow floating from the sky.  They stood letting the snow kiss their cheeks, squealing with delight.

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One timid little one stood under the awning, eventually sticking her hand out and watching the flakes melt in her palm.  She cried when they melted and I could only put my arm around her and nod with understanding at the beautiful brevity of snow.

We stood outside as long as we could and then we tromped back into the classroom to read Snowflake Bentley.  Still the snow continued to fall.  So we zipped ourselves back into our jackets again and slipped outside to catch a little more magic.

Snow twice in a year is a rare gift for us.  We can wait for snow for months, sometimes even years.  While I wait, I remember the taste of snow on my tongue.  And I remember the smiles on the faces of my little ones on the day white winter fell from the sky and covered us in wonder.