"I hope you know this isn't normal," he insists, his hand sweeping the arc of sky above him. "Usually it's snow drifts this time of year."
I don't tell him that I hadn't hoped a winter in Canada could be so mild. When we'd told our American friends last year that we were moving here, they'd pictured igloos and dog sleds.
The snow fell the same evening of our conversation, a little bit of winter flexing from the Toronto sky. It was wet and heavy, and Andrew had jubilantly clasped his hands together, praying, "Thank you God for the snow!"
Yesterday morning, the snow plows rumbled through the streets before 5. By 10, the sky had puddled. Everything white disappearing into the noisy drip-drip of a January day that could have been mistaken for spring.
This is hope.
And what is January without a bit of hope?
When the sky had fallen wet and heavy, the children had known instantly what to do.
Stop. Close your eyes, open your mouth, and look up.
The sky is meant for tasting.
And when it had puddled the morning after, I listened to the melodies of spring in all the dripping of the water.
The sky, it seems, has a song of its own.
The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands.