I look at the pristine fallen snow and feel somewhat melancholy that there are no little footprints in the yard, no snowman or snow angels. Since I now have adult children, the snow in my yard remains fluffy.
Looking at this unspoiled snow, I notice the immense silence in the air as the downy white flakes fall. The branches look like they have been coated with powdered sugar and I feel the cold start to sneak into my bones. The only marks left in the snow are made by my dog, Louie. I see his paw prints meander throughout the yard to his special area. There, the white snow is dotted with yellow and brown.
Once again, I feel that pull to my younger mom-self. A time, when after a day in the snow, my daughters would charge into the house for cups of hot chocolate. I would put the mittens, hats, snow pants and coats in the dryer as they sat expectantly around the kitchen table. Soon, I am recalling the red glow on their cheeks as they clasp the warm mug around their tiny hands. Their upper lips sport a chocolate mustache and the tip of their nose has a spot of whipped cream. Their voices fill my head.
I can almost hear the conversation of who had the best wipe out or flip off the sled, and who make the best snowman. Their giggles warming my heart as I sit remembering. Those conversations around the table are far away now.
“Mom…Mom?” my daughter summons me back to the present. “Are you ready to go?” she asks.
Today, my daughters and I drive through the snow-laden streets to the coffee shop. With steaming cups of coffee in their hand and a mint tea in mine, we talk. I listen to their chatter about the gym, their work, school, friends, and the their future. It’s lovely sitting in the café with my daughters. We laugh, giggle, and sometimes they even let me ramble on in one of my lecture modes. I treasure these moments, too, because I know how quickly time marches on. Soon, I will be left with these memories, as we all move forward to make new ones. Such is the promise of life.
As we sit together, a mom and her young children walk in. Boots, hats, and mittens are clumped with snow. Rosy cheeks adorn their faces. We overhear that they just went sledding. My daughters comment on how cute the kids are, and they start to reminisce about their own childhood.
“Do you remember the time we went sledding in the cow pasture?” asks my eldest daughter.
I fall back into my time machine as these grown up daughters turn into my two little girls with rosy cheeks and chocolate milk moustaches.