A deep stillness came over house this afternoon, and a pervasive chill has seeped in at the windows. A few hours ago, the sky began to spit down tentative snowflakes, and now seeping down through the dark branches are the largest and softest of snows. The instinct seemed at first to be for hibernation, but I think the impulse for snowball fights is creeping in.
“They’re big enough that we could float on them!” Bex says. She’s in a furry, white hat with ear-flaps, and on her way to work for the evening.
Life at the Little White House has trundled ever onwards. Our poor dear Grace has vacillated between varying degrees of sickness, and my job-hunt has been at times depressing, and Abby and Bex do this and that. But that all sounds rather bleak and depressing, and it isn’t, really.
There have been visitors and neighbors, and moonlit strolls to the park, and wild glee, and plans for mischief. All in all, I think we are very happy. And–good heavens, it’s nearly five!–I think it is a hot cocoa night.