44 THE CEDARVILLE REVIEW When I think of home, I think of snow. My memories have a white, misty tinge. Even in the mosquito-heat of August, the sky carries the promise of snow. Most despise Minnesota’s long winter. They ward off Jack Frost with weekends “up north,” chasing fish and runaway innertubes. Log cabins, sandy beaches, and tiny ocean-lakes trick everyone into staying just a bit longer: “No, it’s really not so bad in Minnesota. Have you been to Duluth?” But winter steals in, sometimes dripping all over October. The first snow is the most beautiful. Just before, some tangible feeling saturates the air. A new layer of cold, a new scent like pine and ice and nostalgia rolled into one, and you know snow is coming. I love it most at night, when I curl up on my window seat, a heavy novel balanced on my knee. Soft blankets shield me from the chill creeping under my window as I study the snow slanting across the sky. A street lamp stands by the road, and the swirling flakes under the light fool me into believing I’ve wandered to Narnia. Even in summer, my eyes always drift to that lamppost. While picking weeds, going on a walk, or driving to work, the lamppost whispers of coziness and comfort. I could find it even in dreamland, a marker which always promises that home is near with its creamy yellow paneling, pine green roof, and ruby red door. One of my greatest joys is to make snow cream. I can picture the recipe in orderly Calibri font, stuffed into one of my mom’s bulging binders.
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