When I was a child, growing up in England, it only snowed occasionally each winter. But I remember waking on those days, and lying very still, knowing only that something was different. Then I would realise that the deep quietness and the light could mean only one thing: snow! And I would leap out of bed to look out on the transformed world.
This morning I felt that jolt back to my childhood: the same quietness, the same light. We had arrived home late last night, and although we'd known that it had snowed that day, it wasn't until this morning that we drew the curtains aside and saw Long Point under its snow comforter. I lit the candles in the window, for the last time in 2015, and watched the fog lift over the lake.
It was the quietest day. Bruce and I walked out in the snow - the air was mild - and came home to snowball-throwing girls hidden on the deck.
|the blue jays hold conferences on the biggest bird feeder|
As the day drew on the fog came back down and covered the lake.
Bruce and the girls and I sat around in the evening eating Ben and Jerry's and talking over the highs and lows of 2015, and what we hoped for for 2016. And now it's 11.30pm on New Year's Eve. Bruce and the girls are asleep, but I think I shall sit up with the possums for company until midnight and welcome all the promise of the new year.