I love the snow. I also hate the snow.
It's pretty, a bit special, and romantic. I love watching it fall, seeing it cover roofs, trees and railings in that marshmallowy blanket. Walking along, holding hands, or alone, looking up, watching it fall, catching it on your tongue.
It reminds me of being a child. I don't know how much it snowed when I was a child but I feel I remember every second of it and every winter was white. Snowmen, snowballs, slush balls, freezing cold, wet hands, sodden gloves.
It brings out the best in people, helping each other, bringing people together. 'Shared shrugs and smiles, and helping hands and shoulders' as one friend put it. Conversations between strangers as they become walking buddies, neither able to make any distance from the other. Talking to a lady on the bus, who came into town to get some messages and enjoys the long journey home, for the company.
It brings out the worst in people, shoving, pushing, hurrying, worrying. Must get past, must get home, push push push, onto the bus, the train, the tram. Must stock up, buy all the milk and briquettes they have. Drive on, come on, block the junction, beep beep, I have to get home.
It is lastly, and of course, terribly unpractical. If you have to do things, like get to work, to the hospital, go shopping, wash, shake off cabin fever or heaven forbid have a social life. It breaks pipes, spirits and limbs. No water, no let up, slip slide.
Still though, isn't it pretty?