Days Before Spring

Large wispy flakes float softly outside like dandelion seeds scattered by the joyful dancing of a child. I shudder at the chill of fresh air, afraid that even my warm breath will invade the magic stillness; the snow falling so deliberately even the finch stops feeding to notice.

I glance worriedly at the hopeful buds on a nearby tree, but am quietly called back to the snow, each snowflake pausing to be captured in my memory before continuing on to inspiring nonexistence.

The sharp song of a pudgy robin reminds me of the day's burdens sitting heavily in my chest. With a pressured breath, I turn to go back in and am greeted by the stagnant warmth of hour-old breakfast smells and dirty diapers.

As if time agrees that it too should barrel on in spite of the drudgery, the snow begins falling faster in reckless, meaningless spurts, the finch flies away, and the magic is gone.