It snowed in London today. I was sat at a long computer desk upstairs in a high-ceiled, big windowed office in Belsize Park--a beautiful, quiet part of North London--when I looked up and saw the snow lightly falling through the small window, over the rooftops. I spun my chair around to face the wall of windows behind me and watched as the snowflakes fell larger and larger and the wind moved them in swirls to the black pavement. The snow did not stick to the ground, but melted. My heart, though, was floating and I breathed deeply as I smiled...
The first time I saw snowflakes that large before--the size of a quarter or a 50p coin--it was my birthday and I was turning 12. My friends from 6th grade were all arriving via their parents' cars, pulled up in the middle of the road, the snow quickly accumulating on the ground, parked under the yellow street lamp to unload overnight stuff, sleeping bags, pillows and presents. From that year on, it snowed on my birthday every year until I left home. And even then, there has been at least a light dusting on the ground when I've woken, if not more.
Sure, my birthday is in December and the likelyhood of it snowing is greater than say, if I was born in August, and yet, that first year of snow, heavy snow, on my birthday was the first time it'd snowed all season. Like magic.
I was so happy to see it snow yesterday that it could have very well been my birthday yesterday anyway.
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