It's snowing outside, and I had to walk home from school. There's not even two inches on the ground, but Hell let us out early. I actually enjoy the walk, and today was particularly good. I really love it when it snows. There's that special stillness in the air, the muffled quiet so uncommon in NYC. And the air is different when it flurries. It's cold, but not bitter, more like cool, crisp, and tangy.
I must have looked like a fool, carrying my books and sticking out my tongue to get a taste of the snow. It tastes so pure. I remember when I was little I'd scoop up some freshly fallen snow into a bowl and pour orange juice over it, and eat it all day. My nose would be running and my hands chilly, but this simple creation gave me so much joy.
I remember creating this tiny little snowman, and was so afraid that it would melt, that I stuck it in the freezer. It stayed in there until July, but shrunk, to a little hunchbacked snow-mess.
I remember the Blizzard of '96, and the neverending snow piles, and being buried up to my waist in snow. And the stairs were so iced over that you could barely climb them until someone had literally carved out footholds in the ice.
Snowforts, and snowball fights, and snow angels. Rolling huge snowballs for slightly lopsided snowmen that evaporated into the morning light.
Where does the time go? Some days I just feel old. Almost 17 is most definitely not ancient, but compared to the innocent days of 5-year-olds, it is. Each day we grow older, the sand in the hourglass slips away, and we don't even notice it. Our lives are so frantic and fast-paced that we never take out time to eat orange-flavored snow anymore.
Later, between the Pre-Cal homework and the Physics studying and the stress, I think I'll go outside, scoop up some fresh snow, and sit back, remembering the days gone by.
