In December,

I love the snow.

It is beautiful and fresh

And makes everything look new again.

The trees transform from barren and brown and leafless skeletons

Into white and sparkling giants.

 

(I even put a tree in my house in December.

It is fake, and plastic, and not snow covered,

But with the lights and ornaments, it is beautiful)

 

I love the snow in January.

Schools close

And teachers and students alike rejoice

At unexpected freedom.

I can ski down a mountainside

(Or in Michigan, a hillside. I mean really, who are we kidding?)

And the crisp white snow makes a satisfying crunch

As I fly over the top of it.

 

But I do not love the snow in April.

It replaces the warm, damp smell of spring

With the sharp, bitter smell of ice,

And keeps us trapped inside

Because there’s not enough of it to ski,

But it’s also too cold to go to the park.

 

And it’s confusing.

“Mommy, it’s Christmas now!”

Says my 2 year old

When she sees the trees all covered in snow

In April.

I have to explain that it’s not.

There will be no presents now,

No pretty tree in our house,

No Jingle Bells on the radio.

 

Just us

Stuck inside

Dreaming about beaches and warm sand

But unable to dig our toes into anything but warm socks.