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Well, it was. Big, fat, white flakes, sparing the roads and sidewalks but coating the trees and grass, as though it received divine guidance on where to land.
In a Christmas season where festive seems to have taken a holiday, there's something inspiring about waking up on a Monday to the sound of rain, only to watch it morph into its fluffy counterpart by mid-morning. There's something normal and delightful about snow in December, especially after an autumn that felt more like spring in a season that felt anything but normal to begin with.
Realist that I am, I heard the forecast, but didn't get too excited -- we've had snow no-shows before. Optimist that I am, I believed every word. (Yes, it's possible to be both realistic and optimistic).
The roads are just wet, so I have no real reason to stay home except that I have no real reason to go out, either. This snow, a warm-up (cold-up?) for the storm we're expecting mid-week, gives me the perfect loophole for staying home and collecting the Amazon packages off my front porch as they arrive. Oh, and I'd have to clear my car off if I wanted to go anywhere.
There's nowhere I want to go that badly, especially since snowy days -- even those where the warm ground absorbs the whiteness not long after the flakes stop falling -- are perfect for writing. Monday afternoons, when I have the house to myself because everyone else is at work, are also perfect for writing.
Looks like I have no excuse, and I couldn't be happier about it. A-writing I will go, with an occasional peek at the snow.
While it lasts.
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