It snowed in the night, while I was sleeping. I woke to a changed world. This morning the yard glitters with three inches of soft, white coldness covering every blemish. I hated to mar that smooth perfection, but scooped a small path to the garage. Then I put the shovel away and went inside, determined to enjoy the beauty before it melted away.
While I ate breakfast I noticed the spruce trees in the back yard, their tips dusted with snowflakes. Every few minute a bit of snow fell from a branch and exploded in the silent breeze. I looked at the trees and wondered, as I have so often in the past year, when they grew so large.
Hiram and I planted four blue spruces when our children were little. Allen was about ten, and Anne was four. The trees were tiny, less than a yard tall when Hiram dug holes and the kids and I dragged the hose from hole to hole. We never watered the trees again, just trusted their roots to find water and their branches to soak up the sunshine.
The trees are so tall now, and I marvel. When did their branches grow strong enough to bear the weight of the snow? And when did my children learn to stand and accept the weight of adulthood?
It happened in the night, I think, while I was sleeping.
