From the (very small) part of me that wishes I had become an artist

When I was a little girl, scientists still believed that every snowflake was unique, no two the same. They've since proven that wrong. But I'm still amazed that it took so long to find two that were identical. I used to be in awe of each flake.

After it snowed I would get in all of my gear (boots, snowpants, coat, hat, gloves, hood) and stay outside as long as my parents would allow. Sometimes I would lay in the field near our house and just watch the snow fall from the sky, enjoying each beautiful flake.

Now, snow is something to be brushed from the car, shoveled from the walk and derided until it crusts over, turns grey and eventually concedes to melt away. How can it be so obstinate as to fall anew at the end of February? Shouldn't we be making our way to Spring by now? Even I, who am always excited for the first snowfall, have had enough by now. I've started planning my garden and am ready to stop worrying about slipping on the ice.

But today, as I walked through the snow, I looked down at my scarf and noticed the delicate, intricate flakes collecting in its fibers. And when my car's heater melted the flakes into mere droplets of water, I was sad to see them go.

Today, once again, I was a little girl watching beautiful, tiny pieces of creation drift from the sky. Today, I remembered the miracle of snow.