The first real winter storm of the year is upon us. A blizzard, or at least blizzard-like conditions, are predicted. It’s after midnight. The wind is howling. And my little LE is standing before the window in the back bedroom mesmerized by the storm.
She was afraid of the storm. The wind. The chance of a power outage. So I told the children we were having a winter party. We made cocoa, watched movies and made them a little camp upstairs with all their sleeping bags on the floor.
And she won’t stop talking. She’s perched on top of a box of books, watching the storm and chattering away at Mouse. Or imploring the others to wake up so they don’t miss this. Or running out here to me to see if the blue on the radar has hit us, yet.
“How many degrees is it now, Mommy?” she yells from her window seat.
“Thirty two. Right at freezing. Go to bed.”
I hate windy nights. They trap my thoughts, bind them to that night.
But all the children on the floor reminds me of when we first bought this house. Before we even moved in, we came out to clean and to paint and just to enjoy the property. And I remember sleeping on the floor in that room on a pile of blankets. They were all snuggled together for warmth and chattery in their excitement. And Mattias was there, sleeping in his car seat.
And I remember standing at that same window, staring at the blanket of snow, dreaming of what life would be.
And I remember sitting on the edge of Bear’s bed after the funeral, staring out that window, thinking nothing at all.
But now my little LE is looking out that same window with all her childhood wonder. And I look at her silhouetted against that window and smile.