It doesn’t usually snow here until January or even February, some years, so this evening you are surprised to see it is snowing, the Sunday before Thanksgiving, the gray dusk cascading down like your old knit scarf, the one your great-aunt knit you so many years ago, now fraying at the ends.
Yet even in the face of your son’s excitement, of his insistence on snowball fights and sledding down the little backyard hill, even in the face of tumbling and squealing and catching snowflakes on…
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