Snow fell across the window. Steven tucked his covers into his neck and watched the snow. The large, impregnated snowflakes followed an unhurried path across his window, drifting from right to left. Some flakes stuck to the window and melted, the drops of water retaining the snowflake’s shape for a moment before coalescing into a larger drop and streaming down the window. Most passed soundlessly from his view. The snow formed triangular mounds on the naked oak tree’s branches outside his window.

From his bed, Steven could not tell whether the snow stuck to the ground. Sticking snow was important. On warmer days, the snow melted when it hit the ground, and schools did not close for wet roads. Steven heard his mother outside his room and closed his eyes. She opened the door and he felt her peak in. He remained motionless under the covers and waited. When the door closed, he opened his eyes and chewed his lower lip, biting tiny pieces off his skin. The thought of playing sick flashed through his mind, but he dismissed it. If it turned out to be a snow day, he would have wasted the act, and, even worse, his mother might believe him and keep him inside.

Steven stepped out of bed and wrapped the comforter around his shoulders and head. He dragged his feet across the rug until he could peak out the window. Leading away from the oak tree were two tracks in the snow across the garden. Mr. Henderson had already walked Kato. Steven tried to eyeball the print’s depth, but new snow had filled the prints.

He dropped the comforter on the floor and left his room. The house felt chilly and strangely silent. His brothers must still be sleeping. He walked by the kitchen, ignoring his mother’s questions, and went into the living room. He sat cross-legged on the red rug a few feet from the television, and leaned over and switched it on. It was tuned to channel 4 and he watched a reporter dressed in a heavy winter coat talk into a large black microphone. Steven hadn’t bothered to turn up the volume. Instead, he leaned on his elbows and read the blue ticker scrolling across the bottom of the television screen looking for his school, and found it: closed for the day.

Steven pushed the power button on the television and stood up by straightening his cross legs, pushing him upright and turning him around in one motion. He passed his mother in the kitchen, again ignoring her questions, and went back to his room. He pulled the window shade down covering the snow, and grabbed the comforter from the floor. He crawled into bed pulling the comforter behind him, and before his head plowed the cooling pillow, sleep found him.

***

The day tired me. It did snow a bit this morning, although it turned mostly to rain and ice. As I expected, my rear-wheel car did not handle the snow well, and when I arrived in my company’s parking lot, every time I turned my rear fell out from under me. Very fun. I’m heading to Newport Beach tomorrow night, and I’m excited. I haven’t been there in a while, and the warmer weather (and Doolies) should warm my spirits. As I type this, the words keep shifting around. I watch as they fall from paragraphs, and the letters swing between the words, trading places as children trade baseball cards.

I finished watching “Laurence of Arabia” this evening. Thanks to the wonder that is Netflix, I’ve been catching up on classic movies that I never had a chance (or, to be honest, a desire) to see. I’ve found many of them overrated, but there are a few gems, and Laurence was one of them. Here’s a war movie that’s secretly a character story. Lawrence’s character (or oar-rence, as the Arabs call him) was beautiful. He was larger than life, flawed, and brilliant. The story was not a typical Hollywood movie, probably because it was based (I’m assuming here) on a real person, and I imagine they tried to keep it close to the story. (Why can’t they write movies like this anymore?) Unlike “Braveheart,” which I enjoyed when I first saw but later cooled on, there was meat and growth in Laurence’s character and story. Braveheart was a simple man’s Laurence. While Braveheart’s ending was sad, Laurence’s ending was tragic and beautiful. There was no, “you can take my life, but you’ll never take my freedom,” lines in Laurence. It didn’t need it. There were not tricks or twist endings, and yet the story felt new and original.

I’m babbling now. I’ll leave it at that. I thought after yesterday’s prolific (almost nonexistent) writing session, I would jump right back into this writing thing and find deep and insightful things to talk about. Obviously, I was wrong…again.