The snow came exactly like the forecast said it would, and we waxed nostalgic
about the fireplaces and jigsaw puzzles and hot chocolate of our youth,
marshmallows still floating at the rims. Overnight, the neighborhood got buried under,
and it was perfect, like the heat of those mugs in our young hands, like the pieces
we gentled into place, like woodsmoke rising up a chimney in a storybook curl.
You know where I'm going, right? How these fantasies dispersed as the pileup swelled?
How the kids withdrew into their rooms, and we followed suit, and the puzzle box
turned sepia from neglect, and we reached for an early tumbler of bourbon for warmth?
Outside, the blanket thickened in the drift and the streets stayed empty, and somewhere
we couldn't see it, a moon was rising above us, full as ever.