When the first snowflake floats from the crisp sky it invokes giddiness as I am curled on the couch with a couple of warm dogs and a cup of steaming tea. Though the brisk air pinches me as I step outside, I can’t help but grin when I see the fluffy intricacies of the snowflake as it lands on the tip of my tongue or is caught in the wave of my eyelash. It is quiet and white; it is lucent, silent, still. The snow levels it all, slows the world down, hushes us. The snow restores us back to one age, the age of a kid. We can frolic, slip, slide, fall, lose our balance, dig and build. We can overdress in our frumpiest sweaters, but still be broken by the chill of winter. Under twelve layers, huddled in a scarf and wooly hat, fists balled into thick mittens – you and me alike, we both have rosy cheeks. Both our noses are running so who is the adult and who is the child when we’re making snow angels? Heavy snowboots make us clomp like shire horses and we study our footprints in the snow that has become our blank canvas. In the blanketed silence of a snowstorm I only hear our giggling as we remember how to play again. When my facial muscles freeze into a beaming grin, we venture our frosty snowmen resembling bodies back inside to the warmth of a billowing mug of hot cocoa, the marshmallows are wallowing in the steamed milk.