There’s a snowstorm coming. The new pile of firewood is not well-seasoned and the cupboards are bare. My husband is leaving on a jet plane to attend a business meeting, just as the first flakes are forecasted to fly. It’s all bad timing–he’d rather be here for the storm, wants to cozy up in the barn playing his guitar, and would be more content to spend the weekend with snow-cold beers and a few rounds of card games.

I’ll be home alone–the kids are grown up and gone.

I know how to work the snowblower, how to use a snow shovel, how to build a fire–even with fresh-cut logs. I’ve got my cross-country skis and snowshoes for excursions into the woods.

I’ll watch the whole storm land all around me. It will be quiet. No one will need me to help find boots, hats, mittens, coats.

I’ll locate a random can of soup, somewhere, and heat it up.

I’ll sit in my son’s room. And look out his windows.

I’ll sit in my daughter’s room. And look out her windows.

I’ll glance at books, everywhere–in every room–on shelves, tables, next to beds.

I won’t even think about watching a movie or a television show, because I don’t know how to make our fancy flat screen go from OFF to ON. And I don’t know what a television show is anymore.

It will be all about the pretty storm for me. I’ll go walking into the bright, snowy night. I’ll have the place–the great, cold and crisp outdoors–all to myself.

Maybe the stars will be shining when I go. Or twinkling. Or sparkling. Or glowing.

I’ve raised a family, created a home, can read and write. But as for stars and snowflakes–that’s where enchantment still reigns. I look at them–the stars and the snowflakes–and it’s like trying to figure out where my children were before they were placed into my arms. Or how I ever found my husband.

It’s fun–to look at stars and examine snowflakes. When I do it, I imagine that we go on, forever and ever, twinkling, sparkling, and glowing.

That’s the kind of shine, that leads me on.