We have had a late snowfall, and now, for a moment, the sun is shining on the snow and the ice and my words on the page. But really it has been a bit of a flop of a snowstorm; we are very underwhelmed with it, for we thought we would be watching it come down for hours and that there would be mounds of snow and snowdrifts and heavy winds. The forecast was for a blizzard. We thought we would be snowbound, which I think is rather nice—to not have to go anywhere, not because we are too blue or too sick or too tired, but because we simply can’t. And so there is nothing else to do but stay in our pajamas, make French toast, leaf through catalogs and magazines, put away clothes that have been slung over a chair for far too long, and think about our childhood snow days. Or walk from room to room picking up a book, reading a few pages, putting it down and looking out the window at the winter white and the snow covered garden and the frozen tangle of vines on a trellis and the stunning amaryllis in the sunroom that has been blooming for weeks (an accidental beauty that was supposed to appear around Christmas, but made up its mind to bloom late and gloriously). Of course, I thought too of the novel (I’m using this term loosely) that sits in a notebook in my desk drawer (about a snowstorm and a mother and her four children housebound for days) that needs to be typed out and brought to life, especially on a day like today when the mood is the same as the mood of the book that sits and waits. And so perhaps (let’s pray) it is just a late bloomer like the amaryllis and a late arrival like this snow day.