Yesterday, according to the weekly forecast, it was supposed to snow. Of course, as a college student with what I believe to be a strong sense of child-like whimsy, I went to bed Wednesday night with hope and anticipation. We haven't had snow down here yet this year. The closest thing was that magical Saturday everything was coated with ice. The trees, the rails, even the bricks, EVERYTHING. When my alarm chimed bright and early that morning, I peeked through the blinds to find--nothing. There was a quite pretty dusting, but the paths were clear, and I had recieved no texts indicating the roads were bad enough to close. There wasn't even any left when I had to leave for class, just a few dregs in the shade.
Consider me immature, consider me over-nostalgic, but unless classes get cancelled due to half a foot of snow falling from the sky, it is not winter. I need that layer of bright, white crystallized water on the ground to make the cold weather worth it. At the very least, some ice to crunch underfoot. I like making it shatter like glass. Maybe I'm asking too much from a college south of the Mason-Dixon line, 3 miles away from the ocean. Maybe those storms will never come again, due to global warming rapid coincidental climate change, as the Secretary of Energy claims, or perhaps nostalgia. Snow seems deeper when you're smaller.
Yeah, it's a little stupid. Who am I that the vast mechanisms of the universe and atmosphere will realign themselves to comply with my will? But when my freaking parents back home get a snow day off the same storm, I can't help but feel...disappointed. I should probably count my blessings, though; last year, having to spend a week trapped in the dorms wrecked me. When I was heading to class that day, right as I left my dorm room, a few last flurries descended from the heavens. I smiled. I'll take what I can get.
