Fog on the big picture window in our living room disallows all of the current sunshine through, but it does make for a beautiful suggestion of frost outside. I can almost smell the hard cold air of a winter day if I close my eyes.
: the bright pink chill that creeps across the cheeks and nose the longer one stands outside.
The attempt to warm your face by covering it with a knit scarf and breathing hot breath into the fabric. And then, that warm dewey fabric resting on your nose and skin, making everything damp and soon thereafter cold again. And maybe you repeat the process. Snot runs out of your nose and now the scarf is even wetter, and your nose is still cold and even brighter.
Then, taking the scarf away from the face to just let the brisk air hit it. Laughing, running, screaming through the snow drifts. A steady "crunch, crunch" through the hardened snow, a billowy sinking into the fresh powdery snowfall.
This powdery snowfall is what came down heavily in April around Easter the night before my Grandma Helen's funeral in 1995. It coated the branches ever so lightly, made the whole of Rosholt, SD look like a snowglobe that had lost its music. And indeed, we had.
This picture window here, now. That funeral day.
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