Some people might dread the thought of twelve inches coming in the night, but I welcomed it. From inside I watched the snow fall, seeing how it stuck to the branches of the trees lining the middle of Braddock Park, how it coated the cars and covered the street lamps. Before my eyes nature transformed the fair city, and though it was dark, everything glowed magnificently, like the smoky air surrounding a display of fireworks.
The next day dawned with the splendor only a January morning after a snowstorm could conjure. In the bright light of day, there was a different beauty, a more crystalline, sharp sort of prettiness. Despite the arrival of the wind, the trees hung onto their crystal-carriage, lifting the snow to the loftiest light. Like some enchanted winter wonderland with an elusive ice queen, the city streets were chasms in the woods, the snow providing refuge and hiding places, a buffer in the brutal cold.
Only a scant few times does Winter in Boston afford such brushes with the sublime. This was one of them.
(It helps when someone else has done the shoveling, and the car is parked in a garage. Failing either of those points, I’d be far less thrilled.)
