At 5:45 p.m., I was a grownup walking quickly through the supermarket parking lot, about to head home to make dinner.
The child in me saw something tiny and white in the air and stopped: Was that … a snowflake?
The flakes were few in number, nothing for the grownup in me to fret about (visions of shoveling did not plod through my head).
I watched them fly in the wind. Against the backdrop of headlights, they zipped like shooting stars.
When I got home I announced the snow's arrival to my son and his girlfriend. She reacted like I did, and the two of us went out on the back porch to see the last few flakes.
Snow is magical.
I may need a reminder of that in the bleak mid-winter.