“Daddy, snow.
“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.

Crunch!

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.

Snow.

Meanwhile daddy is at work, telephoning, emailing, oblivious.

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