For all my love of color, particularly the pallet used to paint the wonder that is nature itself, I am still inclined to greet with great joy that first dusting of snow of the winter season. Quite why I should find quite so appealing the appearance of a bland throw sheet laid across the face of all I hold most dear is a mystery in itself, that I find it entirely irresistible day or night not to rush outside, prepared or otherwise, to cavort like some adolescent child in the mounting sodden drifts, beyond any sensible understanding.
My favorite expression this time of year is decidedly, “It certainly do smell like snow”, particularly peculiar considering I have not the faintest notion what odor snow emits, although I am, in the deepest recesses of my personal wonderland, quite certain it is somewhat reminiscent of mincemeat pies and toasted hot buttered crumpets.
The sound is of course another anomalous effect, that wholly satisfying scrunching noise that a well-insulated sole makes when depressing a virgin layer of fluffiness, leaving a trail of utter happiness and jollity behind at any forward progression. Perhaps I am ever too much the romantic, but who can truly blame me? Raised on the frippery of Lear, the imaginings of Carroll, the poignant beauteous phrasing of Keats, even the barely approachable propositions of Byron or Shelley, how could I grow up anything but Pre Raphaelite through and through.
Winter, clean crisp pristine winter, is the true British season, without question or rival. Day or night the air is filled with magical sparkle and spice, much like the pictures on the lids of the enameled tin boxes, filled with delicious treats, sitting proudly upon any available handy surface, eagerly awaiting the next opportunity to be handed around. North American winters can be equally beautiful; indeed the snow is deeper by far, and those of us lucky enough to have settled close to the forty-ninth parallel get to enjoy the unmistakable scent of pine forests each and every day. But sadly it is not home, nor ever will be.
But there again I am quite certain home is no longer home. The world has irrevocably altered, and I have not.