He is red cheeked and drippy nosed in the cold, his face upturned as flakes fall. We can’t find any boots in his size, nor gloves, so make due with a pair of his old tennis shoes and some plastic bags, a pair of women’s gloves. I tell him how my mom did the same thing to me, wrapping his feet snugly in a grocery bag. Outside, his laugh is clear in the crystal air, and that silence that only comes with snow is broken. He leaves tracks in the freshly fallen snow, letting me know that no one else has walked there and he’s the only one that can ever walk there again. I agree. He scoops up snow in his gloved hand, and POW, he blasts me with a snowball in the waist. It’s war, and I chase him with half formed balls until we are breathless. I show him how to drag his feet and make a pattern in the snow, and we write names, his, mine, Daddy. He helps his father shovel the sidewalk for a minute, then stands in front of his dad so that he can toss a shovelful of snow up in the air and let it land all around him. We try and make a snowman, but it won’t pack correctly and we abandon the project before we start. I try and make a mini one on top of the trash can, but that doesn’t work either. He smacks me in the back with another snowball, and his glee rings out, music to my ears. Our fingertips are getting numb and our feet are aching, but he doesn’t want to go in yet. There are still unexplored portions of perfect snow. He looks like a little cherub, all bundled up and stumbling around in too many clothes. His grandmother waves from the window, and he proudly shows off his snow work. We head inside, abandoning our clothes right inside the door. I offer him hot chocolate but he opts for chocolate milk. Our wet clothes are in a sopping pile on the landing, but I’ll get to them later. Right now I will sit next to him, he with his milk and I with my hot chocolate, and we will talk excitedly about all we did outside int he snow.