Damian's First Snow

London.
January.
Freezing.
7:00 am.
There are things to do, sleep to catch up on. Places to sing tonight.

On a quick, stumbly sleepy trip to the bathroom I notice an overly bright morning...
It couldn't be.
It doesn't DO that here.
I haven't seen this since Detroit.
This is the real deal. Serious stuff.
Incredible!
It IS!

Al: (whisper) Damian... Daaaaaamian...?

Damian: QSndkjX%*ehliruw@##en....

Al: ... I am so sorry to wake you... but something VERY SPECIAL has happened... and I don't want you to miss it...

Damian: Huh? What it is?

Al: It's snowing. And the snow has stuck.

Damian: What?!

Al: I know. I think you need to see it.

We get dressed. We shuffle to the doorway.

Al: Ready?

He nods.
I open the door onto Carlingford Road. And there before us is a virginal, untouched blanket of pure white snow. It is exquisetly beautiful. Every little branch, every little crevice has been touched and decorated. There are at least six inches on the ground. His eyes twinkle and fill with wonder and emotion. He looks like a little boy. I remember this feeling so well. It seems so far away now.

Damian: Can we go out in it? Can we play in it?

Al: Of course! Let's get properly dressed!

We do. Coats, scarves, mittens, big boots! And cameras of course. Hardly anyone is even awake.

I teach him how to make snowballs. And then we decide to make a snowman. Of course. The secret is a good central snowball and patience in the rolling technique. No respectable snowman was ever made in haste.

A young woman and her son appear in the window of a flat across the street. We wave to them, they wave back. This would never happen on a normal day, people are very reserved and cautious here. But today, on snow day, that is different.

We find pebbles for the Snowman's eyes. Sticks for a mouth and a scarf and mittens of course.

Damian: Let's get a picture.

We do.
We've been out an hour. It's cold.
A morning made of magic.


Oh BOY.