Snow Day

“You wake up and the light is wrong — too bright, too white. The radio is already on. Mom listening for the school closings, alphabetical. Your district starts with W so you wait forever. W... W... THERE. Closed. The sound you make is involuntary. The day cracks open like a gift. Hot chocolate first, the kind with the tiny marshmallows. Then boots, snow pants, the whole suiting-up ritual. Outside the world is new. The street you walk every day is suddenly alien. Quiet. White. Yours. The first footprint in fresh snow. You own the world for exactly one day.”