Sunday, February 27, 2011


Well, finally it is here. A huge dump of snow, that has been predicted for months now. It is lovely, big fat flakes, lining the trees, covering the roads, making it so very quiet in this busy, noisy city.
So I can relax. I don't have to go prep, not badly enough to dig out the car, or deal with the slippery roads. I don't have to shop. I am sure I can find something to rustle up for lunch and dinner in the cupboards and fridge. I don't have to 'do' anything.
So, I sit, and type, and listen to Stuart McLean's Vinyl favourite Sunday afternoon activity.
I plan to knit, and catch up on tv programs missed, and knit, and sit in front of the fire. And, I might even stay in my pajamas.

When the kids were little a snowfall like this meant bundling up in snowsuits, dragging out the sleds and snowracer and meeting the neighbours outside on the hill that is our front street.

But, now I am content to sit inside the kitchen, warm and cozy watching the snow fall in huge, overwhelming flakes.

I chatted briefly to my son, in England, over skype, and I am awaiting our weekly phone chat with my daughter, in Nova Scotia. How can it be that I, born and raised in this city, a resident of the same home for 25 years, can have children that are so very far from home. So very far from home.

I miss them. Not always, but often. It is so trite to talk about how quickly they grow up, how quickly those years of dependence and responsibility go by. Trite, but true.

And they are remarkable. Each, in their own way, is remarkable. They are doing things I was afraid to do, or never thought to do, or didn't know I could do.

So I remember snowy walks, and rosy cheeks, and childhood laughter. I have them tucked safely in my heart, sitting with me in front of the fire, watching the snow fall.

They are elsewhere. I hope I am safely tucked in their hearts no matter where they go and what they do.

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