“Ben dig snow.”
And so with accompanying gestures I learn of the great adventure of the day.
And I see and feel it all.
I see the fresh, clean snowfall begging to be disturbed,
the ritual of hats, scarves, gloves, coats, boots,
that first stamp of a tiny foot.
I focus on the job in hand. With plastic red shovel I excavate the stuff.
I shriek with delight as powdery handfuls burst against the legs of mummy.
With the help of my sister I roll a sphere of it forward, push, push, push!
It soaks through my gloves and the knees of my trousers.
I head back inside.
Meanwhile daddy is at work, telephoning, emailing, oblivious.