The night before it melted, the skies opened and the snow that I dreamed of fell to the earth. It came down after dark, huge clumps spiralling through the blackness, and when I pressed my face up against the window, I could see the flakes dropping from the sky and I felt as though I were falling or flying.
And even though James assured me that it would all be melted by morning and the rain would come in the night, I drew back my curtains at sunrise to find the world drenched once again in white and glittering with untouched promise in the early morning light.
And so began the last day of the snow. A stolen day of bright magic, when the world was meant to be grey. A day when the snow crunched and gave beneath your boots and the sun peeked out from behind the clouds to make you squint and smile as you played. A perfect day for adventuring. A perfect day for sledging.
We set our sledge on the slope and raced downhill with John whooping and giggling on our laps and then panted back up the slope, pulling him in tow. We felt the thrill of the the snow beneath our sledge, we smiled as the sun kissed our skin and we slipped easily in and out of memories as we skidded down that slope.
Sometimes Daddy took the helm, sometimes I whooped with glee as I whizzed down behind my boy and sometimes John bravely navigated the hill alone.
And as I watched him grin in gleeful terror as he slid and flew, I felt a little part of me click into a place of contentment.
Because you see, I dreamed of these moments. I dreamed of my boy bundled up in hats and scarves and boots; I dreamed of white hillsides and fresh footprints;I dreamed of snowman building and snowball fights and of course I dreamed of sledging. I dreamed of those memories that I cherish from my childhood recreated for my boy. I dreamed it and it came true. And for that I am so very, very thankful.