I was reminded of one of my stories. I have a bad habit of not dating things, but it was written several years ago on another "blue" day.

SNOW

Snow touches the land with flakes as though they were feathers plucked from Aunt Rhodie's goose. Drifted ripples outline the bare trees making them appear like skeletons of what they had once been. An orange-pink glow from the window paints the landscape. My mind remembers and I can taste the sweet, cold snowcream that Mama made when we were children. I want to go out and experience again the fun of building a carrot-nosed snowman, feel the sting on my fingers when the snow melts through the encrusted gloves, relish the tang of wood smoke, listen once more to the joyful laughter as overdressed children tumble in the mounds.

The enchanting moment passed. There are no longer any joyful children here to bundle up. The snowcream would be laced with pollutants. My arthritic fingers would freeze despite the wooly gloves. I don't even have a carrot! Still, I can relive those idyllic days, so I go to the photograph albums. Leafing through their stiff, musty pages, I find only a half-dozen pictures made in the snow. There are hundreds made on bright, sunny, warm days. Our memories can play tricks on us. The grey and white scene outside my window is enticing, but I am truly not tempted to go out and endeavor to recreate the past. It can't be done. Thomas Wolfe said, "You can't go home again." Some modern-day wit has said that things are not the way they used to be, and maybe they never were.

I content myself with the snapshots. At least they will never change.

© Sue Hamilton