The snow doesn't give a soft white damn whom it touches.
~ e.e. cummings ~
This part of the country has enjoyed a gentle fall and a mild winter with temperatures ranging from a-good-deal-warmer-than-freezing to wow-let’s-rethink-that-move-to-Florida. Because we are, well, human, we have complained about the balmy weather, noting that it has not been cold enough to kill off the winter viruses, it’s time to be cold dammit, and the budding trees have certainly been damaged by their premature almost blooms. Alice Hoffman would call this dangerous weather. Weather in which people make bad decisions about digging in the dirt to start a foundation for an addition to their house. Weather that causes the crazed lunatic love found only in Spring, all too soon frozen by the inevitable breath of winter.

The numbers on the thermometer have dipped in the past couple of days, and I had to peer more closely when I saw one that started with a “2” on the car display this morning. This afternoon my mind conjured a tiny fluff of white that drifted past the kitchen window, but then my eyes registered a few more and they became a dancing swirling emptied pillowcase of feathery snow. These are the flakes that don’t leave a trace, they don’t even really melt, just disappear, barely cold enough to survive the tumble from the sky.

The actual moral of this story is that if you see a woman of a certain age driving in her car with the windows open and the sunroof unsealed, even though the air has turned shivery and is filled with tiny points of white, don’t feel the need to ask if she’s ok or if her car’s windows are stuck open. She’s not only enjoying the sudden burst of winterness; she’s having a damn hot flash and doesn’t need to be reminded of it.