White crayon on a windowsill. Ice down the toilet. Spoon under the pillow.
Pajamas inside out AND backward.
Countless rituals exist for children to choose from, even more than the previously stated according to the internet—but I refute them for their lack of longevity (or rather, lack of my knowing them when I was a kid).
I recall doing all of these; I remember the sting of the ice in my small hands as I delivered it to its holy flush, the itch of my pajama tags on my neck and chin, and the triumph as I balanced a spoon on my nose before my siblings could figure out how.
I remember drawing “please” on the foggy glass, before promptly placing a snow-white crayon beside the grey canvas of my window, as if I was giving the clouds supplies to fill the landscape with snow-white snow. I finished my day with “please” on my lips and stainless steel under my pillow.
Now I sit at the television, watching Blake Harmes and debating if I should go to sleep. I awake in the morning, desperately hoping for a notification from my zero-hour friend or the familiar ruby-red lettering on the FHPS website.
My snow-day-eves are now spent hoping I won’t have to take the impending test or quiz the next day. My snow days are now spent indoors, studying or working on one project or the next—not spent in the snow.
I watch my brothers come inside from their hours-long crusades in our front yards. I longingly stare at their snowmen and snowforts and our snow-covered dog, wishing I could return to the old snow day. The snow day I used to anticipate.
I wonder how my anticipation would change if this were different. If I hadn’t moved back to Michigan in first grade.
Would I celebrate with a light frost or half an inch of powdery snow? Would I say a thousand prayers on the drive to school for fear of my car not stopping or starting when I need it to? Would I need to brush snow off my car or employ my brothers to scrape ice off of the windshield?
Would I spend my day in the (albeit little) snow, or would I waste it worrying about my work?
Nevertheless, I will save my snowy traditions for Christmas break. I’ll sled down my neighbor’s steep slope and build an endless army of snowmen. I’ll walk with my father in the steep snow under the pooling, yellow light of the streetlamps. I’ll come inside from my adventures with rosy cheeks and a frozen nose, warm my back at the fire, and enjoy a piping hot cup of ginger tea.
I’ll spend my break taking a break.
