Snow Globes

It's a rare and wonderful snow day in Texas, and my babies (one of whom is now bigger than me) are tucked with me in our flannel pj's and quilts with tomcats keeping our feet warm.  The stunning stark light that bounces off the ice and breaks in through the windows is disparate among the grey shadows of the house.  We are nappy and snuggly, and we yawn with kitty-cat breath.  This will be among the happiest days of my life.
I remember another snow day when the kids were toddlers that set the bar a level higher in counting those happy moments.  I was a stay at home mom then, and we lived next to a park called Boys Ranch.  So, when the snow fell thick and cold, we bundled up and stomped to the playground instead of staying in.  There were geese on the steaming pond, and the world was washed in shades of grey.  We were alone in the vast blanketed snowscape, and all sounds were hushed and muted beneath the quiet sky.  My children and I were delighted to find that the winds which usually twisted little dirt devils across the open space were capable of doing the same thing with snow.  Powdery flakes danced around us, so marvelously graceful that at first we could only watch in still silence, afraid movement might spook them away, I guess.  But then we began to pretend that we were in a snow globe, and each flurry meant that someone was shaking our little orbed world.  We wobbled, staggered, and fell while loudly overdramatizing these imagined upheavals, feigning difficulty in maintaining balance in what was, probably, the most stable moment I've ever known.