It’s falling heavier. An hour ago it was only a promise of a white Christmas, but now I believe it will happen. From the bedroom window I watch winter’s dandruff spill, sticking to anything it touches. Cars parked for the night are smothered, and will probably need digging out by morning. Roofs are quilted. Tree branches groan and buckle, but take the load. Streetlights paint this alabaster wonderland and the gaggle of teens play fighting in the road, a honey sheen. It’s the snow; it’s catnip to the child within: for them and for me. A rare sight now to see teens acting their age and even younger, because normally, they’d be herded inside getting high on their phones or PlayStation; or watching Netflix, or chatting on Facebook. But it’s Christmas time, and their not so innocent hands roll, then throw snowballs at each other—as well as the odd expletive—but it’s only in jest. A ball scores a bullseye on the window, it’s splat making me jump. A lanky youth the culprit, and also the teens’ leader, howls, then gives me ‘the middle finger,’ before slipping away with his wolfpack straggling behind. This is fun, and I want to have fun again...and i’m sure you do, don’t you...don’t you?