At 46, I'm beginning to understand the term midlife crisis. I've been at this a long time--this childrearing, grocery shopping and running of a household--and I'm beginning to fantasize about a long stay in Martinique, strolling in my sarong beside the Caribbean, drenching myself in Creole, African and French cultures, perhaps learning banana farming. I'd like to escape for a time the endless responsibilities of raising a family, a relentlessness that sometimes clouds my vision and my sense of possibility.
At the very least, I could use a major snow storm this winter. The last time we had significant snow accumulation in our Tennessee town was on Steve's fortieth birthday in January, 2003. The week prior, Steve had mentioned that he wanted a dog, and so five-year-old Adele and I drove to the downtown library on his birthday to research dogs and to borrow a stack of books on breeds and their personalities. Adele, my constant companion, so affectionate and expressive, was eager to help with the mission.
At the library, we studied in the stacks, checked out our books and then headed to the French bakery adjacent to the library. With a coffee, hot chocolate and croissants, we sat at a little round table for two. Outside, it had started to snow, big fluffy flakes already sticking to the sidewalk and street. There by the window, we could feel the chilly air just beyond the glass. As we sipped our frothy drinks, the snow began to fall more heavily, and our view of the somewhat dingy downtown changed magically before our eyes. Everything became elegant, beautifully draped in snow. Big flakes, falling thickly, transported us to another time and place. Our outing was now in Paris. It was 1900, and our carriage driver was to meet us outside, our horses ready to clippity clop home across the snowy thoroughfares.
There's no one I would have rather spent that afternoon with than Adele, the girl who reflects back to me so much love and joy, who serves as a magic mirror to my better self. For a long time, we watched the snow come down. We skimmed dog encyclopedias and pulled apart flaky croissants until the lampposts and park benches in the scene outside were iced with a thick white frosting.
We didn't want to leave, but to stay in the beauty of that moment, to enjoy the day, my husband's fortieth birthday, and the dog we dreamed of choosing with him, the hour of snowfall and the elegant curves of the backs of our chairs.
