Hot Chocolate and Marshmallows

Remember those days: being under four feet, snow up to your nose, and bundled with thirty layers of soggy wet fabric?
Sliding down what seemed to be the grand canyon on a small thin disc of plastic?
Falling onto your canvas of white, making all sorts of snow angels?
Building an ice wall so strong only your older brother could knock it down?
Watching the snow balls fly and fall like rain.
Hearing the trees rustling and an unexpected snow flurry finding its way through all your layers to trickle down your back?
Watching the world around you blanketed in millions of perfect crystals?
Smelling the snow was ready to fall?
Jumping over huge ponds of slush and ice?
Not entirely making it.
Feeling the snow finally seeping through your boots?
Clenching and unclenching your hands to keep them alive?
Finally blonking your way to the back door too tired to grip the door handle?
Knocking your boots against the back porch step?
Opening the door and feeling the warmth of inside on your ice and cherry nose?
Not exactly seeing your mother helping you get your snow gear off.
Feeling weightless and almost naked in your underclothes?
Knowing you are safe from the cold?
Wiggling your toes as they tingle with heat?
Sitting down at the table, grinning like a fool?
A plate of cookies, fresh from the oven in front of you?
Seeing your mom walking towards you, a steaming cup of something in front of you?
Hot Chocolate and Marshmallows, smiling back at you.

Do you remember?