47 to mean more than just snow, becoming a tapestry of laughter, wrapping paper, and homemade cinnamon rolls. Yet sometimes it did snow, tiny little inches that sent the city into a panic. Unlike Minnesota, Ohio doesn’t have giant snowplows that span two or three lanes. Instead, my grandpa would disappear in the middle of the night, steadily plowing and salting till three or four in the morning. I remember we had a real, proper snow one frosty winter before moving to Minnesota. You could have made me believe it was a blizzard, the way inches looked like feet. My brother and I stuffed ourselves into snow-overalls, hats, and scarves and dove into the white ocean. Childishly, clumsily, we rolled together a leaning snowman, looking rather lopsided but jolly, nonetheless. As my cheeks pinked, I lifted my tongue to catch the snow. But it always seemed to miss no matter how hard I tried, as though it wanted to stay everywhere but me. My university lies about an hour from my old house in Ohio. I hate the wind the most. I miss the trees and lakes and hills that tempered it at home. At school, nothing protects me from the biting gale careening across campus. But I can almost forgive Ohio when it snows. Several weeks ago, Ohio surprised me again with several inches. I left my brownbrick dorm that morning, boots crunching deliciously onto the path, and it sounded like high school. The sky was muted and soft gray, not the oppressive kind, but the kind which makes you
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