These words fall back to earth like the snowflakes that made this place what it is. There they sit, indistinguishable from others. On my descent maybe I'll rearrange them into a different pile. Maybe someone else will pick one up and use it for their own. Maybe the sum of all the conversations is sitting there below the lift line. It will melt and return to the earth. Those words will re-absorb into the soil and make a soft landing or a creche for windblown seeds.

What a strange combination of caution and recklessness. Of preparation and being in the moment. I suppose they’re all shades of grey. Just like the sunlight. Stripping away the contours. Putting me in between the same sky and the same land where I've always existed. But not, all the sudden.

What makes a temporary thing so alluring? Why is it that if I know I’m going to be here only for a few years it takes the pressure off? Knowing there's an end date means that I don't have to consider ten years in advance when I ask a fellow mom a question on the playground?

It began with a toy not packed. Midway there was a shirtless, furious seven year old stomping alongside a park road alone. At the end there was a thunderstorm worthy of its Texas roots.