Snow! Snow! Just look at the snow!

When I was a kid, one of my favorite books was "Snow," by Roy McKie and P.D. Eastman. Okay...it's still one of my favorites. I pulled it off the shelf and read it last week.

The entire book is dedicated to the sheer wonder of snow. Snow is fun and fluffy. It can be rolled into a ball and chucked at your brother's face. You can make it into a fort. You can make tracks and pictures on your backs. You can ski down a hill and make a snowman named Ned.

Seriously, if you have a son or daughter, or nephew or niece, or if a friend has a kid or you meet a kid on the street, buy them this book. Then curl up with some hot cocoa and read it to them over and over :).

My small Wyoming town hasn't received much snow this year, but the mountains just 15 miles away have gotten a fair share. Since I was recently given a pair of snowshoes, I've been able to get out and enjoy the snow in a new way.

"Do you like it in your face?"
"Yes! I like it any place."

 On our trek for a Christmas tree. This is what happens when you don't have snowshoes.

 Went snowboarding/skiing with my friends Jason and Tori. Sure felt good to be on my board again after a year-long hiatus. 

 Going up...

 Snowshoeing in Story, Wyoming.

 Making tracks near the summit on Highway 14. 

A keyboard doesn't make a very good shoulder

A keyboard doesn't make a very good shoulder
 
The other night at work--
as I frothed milk and pulled espresso shots--
I watched a man walk by carrying a present so big
his body was a pink box and his head was a pink bow.
He was on his way
to the pediatric section of the hospital
to welcome
new life.
Life pushing life,
mother pushing baby,
all blue skin turned pink with a wail, a gasp, a flail. 

Later--
as I wiped down the counters and washed the dishes--
I watched a nurse walk by
pushing a gurney draped in a white cloth
and an American flag.
Life pushing death,
nurse pushing patient,
quiet and dignified,
pink skin turning blue as the gurney wheels squeaked
and my water polished silver milk pitchers.

Today--
as I edit, write, edit, write--
I watch a childhood friend walk by
in post after post on my facebook news feed:
Amanda is home and under the care of hospice.
Praying for a peaceful journey into the arms of Jesus.
I love you so much and can't wait to hang out again
on golden streets with our Lord!
Prayers for your two beautiful babies.
We love you Amanda!

Today
I watch a friend die on facebook.

She is 30.
Was 30.
She has cancer.
Had cancer.
Our verb tenses will change soon.
Her 394 facebook friends have posted
calls to fight the cancer and prayers to heal the cancer.
We now post our love
and will soon post our memories.
Eventually, I suppose, the posts will stop,
but I find myself wondering if Amanda's profile will remain,
or if my number of facebook friends will one day drop by one?

I understand life when it walks by
in big pink boxes that celebrate new pink skin and loud pink wails.
And I understand death
when I hold its hand or watch it glide by on a gurney draped in Old Glory.
I understand sobs at the side of a real grave dug in real dirt.

But this facebook death,
this checking a news feed to monitor a life,
this waiting in words and dying in words on a screen?

A keyboard doesn't make a very good shoulder.