It's snowing here, again, and we're watching the world from the window, looking past the huge flakes stuck to the screen as they create a permanent snow-scape. There's a frantic toe-point ballet of ice at the roof and even the trees seem weary of winter, shaking their limbs free of snow.
Here, inside, it's all blankets and television, hot tea, a baby who smiles in his sleep then cries and fusses in wild frenzied intervals. I'm grateful I have no where I need to be, that I have this sweet boy who, when he decides it is appropriate, is wide and blue-eyed, pressing a warm head against my chest.
We painted the walls of his room a fairytale blue. Not because he's a boy but because it's the color of a technicolor movie sky. Hyper-real. In a way.
Sometimes we are all lucky enough to see a sky the color of the wall and I'm thinking of this particular coat of blue, and the way they soared, just before dusk, on a summer day in Coney Island.
