50 - Snow...

Bromford, come inside, my mother calls from the living room from inside my penthouse.

But, Momon, I say, I just found the perfect word for snow, just as Grandma White Feather asked me to.

Don't be silly, Bromford Bibble, Grandma White Feather is long, long dead and gone. She passed away long before you were even born.

And my eyes fill with tears when I look into the grey sky following a little white spot flying by. A little white spot with wings uttering the trumpet cry of a majestic snow goose. And as I watch the shining bird heading North one small single snow crystal falls from the heavy clouds landing and melting on my warm nose.

Come inside, my mother repeats, looks like we're getting a White Christmas this year.

And behind me she closes the glass door to the roof deck of my penthouse above the fifteenth floor of the apartment house on 666, Whitaker Lane, in Bromford, the friendly town at the bay and seaside.

SNOW

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