It was a New Year’s miracle, they say, and as far as I know, no one has been able to explain it. New Year’s Eve was projected to be bitterly cold and we bundled up together on the couch, watching the festivities on TV. The wind picked up and I heard the house creak slightly.
“I’m going to go check on the stuff on the porch,” I said. I put on my coat and hat and stepped outside, bracing myself for an icy blast. Instead…I stopped, in shock. The wind was warm, like something you might feel in April, not the last day of December. I stood there, stupefied, and then took my jacket off. The snow was melting, running off in rivulets, opening up dark patches on the lawn and driveway.
“Honey, come take a look at this,” I called after a moment. She came, finally, grumbling a little at being called away from the warm couch, but then stopped short and laughed. We stood there for a long time, marveling and enjoying the warmth.
The wind died and soft whiteness began to fall.
“It’s snowing,” she said. “Isn’t it too warm for that?”
“It’s not snow.” I was looking closely now. It was not until I reached out and caught one on my hand that I realized they were flowers; tiny delicate white blossoms that released a delicious fragrance that made me close my eyes and breathe deeply. We watched, silently, as the flowers covered the ground and trees around our yard.
From the living room, we faintly heard the countdown and shouts of “Happy New Year!”
I put my arm around her and hugged her tight. “It’s going to be a good year,” I said. She nodded.