We Danced

The children thrilled in the reddening of cheeks, the knit mittens, the footprints
which criss-crossed the yard like messy ribbons. I watched from the front step; then
I smiled: the cold cracked along the tired latticework of lines on my cheeks. Our
home resisted the quiet blanket of ice; the pines drooped under the
weight of white snow. There you went, running with the children, covered
in delicate flakes which dusted your hat, your scarf, your boots lined with snow.

Oh you -- lover, husband, high school sweetheart -- the snow
whispered and reminded us both. You blew me a kiss as your footprints
forged a path toward me from the evergreens to the patio, which was covered
in packed ice. There you stood, falling flakes coating us both -- then
you bowed and took my gloved hand, leading me into the soft snow. The
children laughed as the dance began: the cheery clump of boots and our

breath which breathed out crystals. We warmed our
bodies moving in unison with the snow
that continued to swirl around us. I remembered the
first time we danced, leaving socked footprints
in the school gym -- I hummed the song, then
felt once more the strong hands that covered

mine. A montage of memories: we covered
your brother's bicycle in heaps of snow -- then
the first mittened touch in the woods -- and
that kiss, softly indented against the snow.
Our dance ended; we laughed at the footprints
left by the stumble of overcoats and age. The

memories we both shared, and the
communion of our bodies had covered
the distance marked by our footprints:
childhood to shyness to romance to our
love, which rested in the freshly falling snow.
We stood as the snow fell faster, and then --

Then
the
snow
covered
our
footprints.

I sighed in mournful remembrance until our children began a snowball fight; then we were covered
in this tumble of family, this laughing continuum; this blessing which continued to sprinkle our
home with comfort, with snow. I smiled and turned away from the disappearing footprints.