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Lynn Edge

Son and Snow

On Christmas Eve, weather reports predict snow, but I'm skeptical. South Texas receives measurable snowfall only every twenty to thirty years. My son, David, arrives for a holiday visit, and says, 'It started snowing about ten miles from here.' I turn on the porch light, and feathery flakes reflect in its beam. For me precipitation means rain or sleet tapping on the roof and windows. The quietness of snow seems strange. Flakes accumulate in the moonless night, transforming the ground from inky-black to luminous.

David suggests a drive in his 4x4 Dodge. I hesitate, then slide into the passenger's seat. Will I ever have another chance? He assures me powder isn't slick like ice and I trust him. The truck leaves gray lines on the driveway. Beneath a street lamp, excited children and adults laugh as they throw snowballs into the dark.

headlights shine
on snow-dusted palm leaves
fogged car windows

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