All of our snow equipment (mittens, sleds, boots) will gather yet another year of dust.
We're not avid skiers, so the inconvenient truth is minor, but it's kind of a bummer.
Snow is cool.
And I won't climb on my liberal high horse except to say that draught has the ability to change the trajectory of entire civilizations and I was really hoping for a good crop of tomatoes this year.
But I grabbed this picture, specifically, because it's one of the few times in their lives that my boys actually played with one another.
I mean, they are growing up with twelve years between them, so there isn't a lot of overlapping interests and past times. Waxing poetic would be silly, but a few little Norman Rockwell moments sprinkled here and there is awfully tender.
Now, with the big guy away at college, even the rarest of moments have vanished. A trip to the beach, a day at the snow, a game of Monopoly and that one time at Disneyland.
A decade at least will pass before they start to speak the same language again. Only this time it will be beer and golf and how crazy their mother is and how embarrassing dad has become. They'll be long into their own lives by then, maybe with their own children to take photos of.
I hope they call their crazy, embarrassing parents, and invite them along.
They'll be old, but that doesn't matter.
Everyone's ten years old at the top of the hill.
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