FIRST SNOW
By Jonathan Nicholas
He wasn't sure what had awakened him. Perhaps the child had made some small noise in her sleep. But as he peeked from beneath the covers, his gaze was drawn not to the cradle but to the window.
It was then that he realized what had sneaked through the shield of his slumbers. It was the sense of falling snow.
Quietly, so as not to disturb the child's mother, he rose from the bed and inched toward the cradle. Reaching down, he gently lifted the warm bundle to his shoulder. Then, as he tiptoed from the bedroom, she lifted her head, opened her eyes and - daily dose of magic - smiled up at her dad.
He carried her downstairs, counting the creaks on the way. Together, they settled in at the kitchen table, and the adult in him slipped away. Two children now, they pressed their noses against the glass.
The light from the street lamp on the corner filtered down through the birch trees, casting a glow as green as a summer memory upon the winter-brown back yard. From the distance came the endless echo of the stoplight, flashing its ruby message, teasing like a dawn that would not come.
The flakes were falling thick and hard now, pouring past the window, a waterfall of mystery. Occasionally, one would stick to the glass, as if reluctant to tumble to its fate. Then, slowly, slipping and sliding down the glass, it would melt, its beauty fleeting. Gone.
Within an hour, a white tablecloth was spread upon the lawn. And as gray streaks of dawn unraveled along the black seam of the distant hills, father and daughter watched the new day ripple across the neighborhood.
A porch light came on. A car door slammed. A television flickered.
Across the street, a family scurried into gear. But this day was different. Glimpsed through undraped window as they darted from room to room, the slim figures of the children seemed to grow ever fatter until, finally, the kitchen door flew open and out burst three awesomely bundled objects that set instantly to rolling in the snow.
He wondered where they had learned this behavior. Even the littlest one, for whom this must have been the first real snowfall, seemed to know instinctively what to do.
They rolled in it, they tasted it, they packed it into balls and tossed it at one another. Then, just when he thought they might not know everything, they set about shaping a snowman on the crest of the hill.
By the time the snowman's nose was in place, the neighborhood was fully awake. A car whined in protest, but skidded staunchly out of its driveway. Buses ground forward like Marines, determined to take the hill. And all the while, the baby sat secure and warm in his arms.
He knew, of course, that she wouldn't remember any of this. For her there would be other snowfalls to recall. But for him, it was her first. Their first. And the memory would stay, cold and hard, fresh in his thoughts, long after the snowman melted.