Snowfall

"Snowfall" by Ingrid Michaelson

I was watching Bones and this song came on.  I had to look it up, and now it's making me tear up.  I don't know why I'm so into snow right now.  But I'm just so overcome with nostalgia and longing.  This song just paints such a damn clear picture for me.  Sometimes I think I can't stay here in San Francisco forever because how can I possibly raise kids somewhere without snow culture?

You don't have to read this next thing.  It's sappy and romantic as shit.  The truth is I don't have word on my new computer, or else I'd write this there, and just save it.

~

Something feels different when I wake up.  The air in the bedroom seems crisper, the light brighter.  I pad to the window and push back the curtain.  The pane is fogged over, so I pull my sleeve over my hand and start to clear it off.  I already know what's behind it, and try to contain my excitement.  As I wipe away the moisture, I can see the giant flakes swirling around.  There's already a couple inches collected in the corners, and it's falling so thick and fast, I know that no one's going into work today.

It's still early, so I bite back the urge to shout out.  Instead I lift up the covers and bury myself underneath.  "It's snowing," I whisper, but doubt you hear me.

We wake up an hour later to your alarm.  At first you're surprised to see me.  "It's snowing," I say again.

With a sly smile, you pull me tight.  "We're so going sledding," you tell my shoulder.

I laugh.  You bought a plastic sled last month and haven't been able to talk me into using it.  I remind you that we aren't 10 anymore and would look incredibly creepy on a hillside full of kids.  "We'd probably break the sled anyway," I add, but secretly wish you'll convince me otherwise.

"I wouldn't, I'm not as fat as you."

"You ass!"  I definitely slap you.

You're laughing so hard.

So am I.  We're very ironic.

We decide to make breakfast and table sledding until later.  Since it's a snow day we go big:  french toast, hot chocolate, and, of course, you make bacon.  It all smells so good.  Mostly, I sit at the breakfast bar and drink hot chocolate while you cook. Standing barefoot in front of the stove, you gesture absent-mindedly with the spatula as we talk.  Through the kitchen windows the snow falls thickly around the house and lends a soft chill to the rooms. 

Later, you lean in for a kiss as you slide me a plate of french toast, "I love you." 

"I love you, too."

That sly smile lights your face again. "I can't wait to go sledding," you say, biting into a piece of bacon.

"Me either."