Sometimes, when I walk outside into the winter, I still expect to see Ray, Jeremy, and Lyle building a snow fort just outside. And maybe we'll find another dead rabbit in the field, and Don will write his name in a snowman. We might even play Smear the Queer or take an icy swing on the old tire.

There was a particular essence to snow back then: a mushy substance of possibilities and suggestions. Eight years old and the cold under the mittens and the running nose aren't prices to pay; they are the fun. It was about creativity and being given this gift for three months out of the year, to make ours the stuff the grown-ups didn't want. There was always something new you could do. Hit two pieces of ice together to see whose was left standing; have ice throwing contests; build a snowman out of the dirtiest snow under tires and cracks in the wall. Snow was there to throw your whole self into.

Now the ice is just an obstacle... and with these damn flat-soled shoes! I suppose if I stopped for a moment and picked up a piece, and dreamed for a while, I could feel for a brief time the old appreciation. But I'm always in a hurry: get out of the cold, get to work, get back home. And what would other people think? A grown man, standing and staring at a piece of ice. And then he throws it as far as he can, watching for the small dent in the perfect snow where a solid meets powder. Would they know his satisfaction?

Then I'd forget about it again and head back towards the lab, cursing the cold and the wind, hating the snow for being here and for betraying an old friend. Can we let our old feelings go? Should we? Maybe the old love and the new hatred can coexist; maybe it's necessary. If I could just lie in the snow again and forget about who I've become... but I can't. It's all there, the past and the present rolled together in the same whiteness flecked with dirt. So I perceive the snow reflects me, though the snow never changes... then what does? There! Ah, a new game to play.  ¶ 11:42 PM