Winter walk

 I long for the days when snow fell gently from the heavens onto quiet streets, where the only sounds were the crunch of my boots and the occasional car making its way home. I walk alone, reminiscing about my youth—sledding down a snow-covered hill on a piece of cardboard and ice skating on a pond we used to fish in during the summer. 

I stroll deep into the night when the houses are dark, and dreams are being made. As children sleep, they awaken to a snow day filled with building snowmen and engaging in snowball fights. When the day comes to an end, there are countless footprints and patches of nearly green grass where we rolled the snowman pieces. My mom would wonder where all the carrots went and about Dad's scarf he received last Christmas. 

As night falls and darkness descends, a fresh blanket of white silently covers everything, like a chalkboard ready to start anew. While I walk through the darkness, surrounded by a million snowflakes that coat me from head to toe, my thoughts drift back to the simple pleasures of life, when my biggest worry was whether there would be a warm bowl of soup waiting for me after the long, cold walk home from school.

Now, as I wander among the snowflakes and darkened houses, my beard dusted with tiny ice crystals, I feel the chill of Mother Nature urging me to return home, hoping that a bowl of hot soup is waiting for me at the table. After I remove my boots and layers of clothing, my wife asks how my walk was. I quickly kiss her cheek, my frozen beard brushing against her, and tell her it was everything I remembered. 

Mike 2025