First Snow

The world decided to start over last night. While we slept— dreaming of deadlines and arguments and the things we should have said— the sky quietly forgave everything. And this morning: white. Not the white of hospital walls or empty pages. The white of permission. Of pause. Of the earth pulling a blanket over its head and saying, not today. The first snow is the only weather that asks for silence. Rain demands attention. Wind insists on drama. Sun takes credit for everything. But snow just arrives and waits for you to notice. Watch how it changes what you know: the ugly parking lot becomes a field. The broken fence becomes a sculpture. The world's sharp edges soften overnight and suddenly everything looks like it might be okay. A child is the correct response to first snow. The adult who stops walking and just stands there, mouth slightly open, is the child who survived. I want to be that person: the one who still looks up. The one who knows it won't last— knows the plows are already coming, knows tomorrow it'll be gray slush and regret— but who stands here anyway, in this vanishing cathedral, and thinks: isn't this something. Snow doesn't care about your plans. It doesn't care about your calendar or your inbox or the thing you said last night that you can't take back. It just falls. Evenly. On everything. On everyone. The most democratic weather there is. And for a moment— just a moment— the whole world is new and clean and quiet and you think: maybe I could be, too.