Snow Day

That morning you came down the stairs dressed all in white to meet the day, softly, regal. All the neighborhood boys stood stoic in lines across the battlefield—sentinels in snowpants, they wage a war in your honor. Snowballs are exchanged with the severity of bullets. In that moment you understood two crucial things:

1) men love the illusion of reward and

2) the day is yours, it snowed for you alone.

10 years on and you come down the stairs the same way, still soft, still regal—now naked. While I sifted through the closet for the shovel, you wrapped yourself in the expensive white coat I bought you downtown. I understood when I looked back at the stairs, you watching me, sideways, with cheeks pressed against the fake fur lining, nodding your approval.

The days are yours, it snows for you alone.