before your snow castle melts

The month of March. When you are a child.

The sound of the wind in pine trees as dusk falls over the neighbourhood, the soggy grey snow beneath your boots, the smell of wet earth emerging slowly, the mildness in the air piercing the cold that has lasted so long, the light sky in the evenings, the first migrating birds returning, the feeling of promise.

You play your fantasy games in your melting snow castle, getting a little wet and cold as twilight descends. You have your own world which stretches further than the stars and knows no limit to hope and dreams, but you also have the safety of hearing the familiar voices of the neighbourhood. Soon, your father's car will pull into the driveway and you will run to him. And your mother will call out that supper is ready. Somewhere, a dog is barking.

Later in life, your dreams may break and you may learn that March is the month of murders. But if you have had even one of these evenings in childhood, you have a treasure that cannot be taken from you.