Buried In The White

Upon this evening we supped with my Uncle’s household… our last get-together and a tranquil send-off before our imminent departure.

The snow crept in with the darkening of the late afternoon, but by Nightfall the ground was inches thick in a downy carpet of Cold.

By midnight it was half a foot if it was an inch, and even now it continues to fall heavily outside my window.
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I recall a particular anecdote I once read by a certain Irish writer, whereupon he was leaving the “Emerald Isle” to make his fortune in the gilded land of America. He wrote that after weeks of unending cold and damp, the clouds parted and a golden Sun shone forth its warmth. It seemed as if all of Ireland was crying out to him, the land and trees whispering: “Please, don’t go.”

Of course, I do not therefore interpret the onset of a harsh Winter storm to be a manifestation of Annapolis growling: “Scram kid, yer kind ain’t welcome around here.” However, there is a certain symmetry to it all… more than I care to delve into at this late hour.
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My children, of course, reveled in it… chasing me around the yard and sledding down and around our neighborhood. Their gleeful shouts echoing into the Night sky.

Through a veil of weary exhales, I studied their delighted eyes sparkling in the glittering night.

Verily, I have other wonders to share with them…

“…there are other worlds than these, Gunslinger…”

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