The snow is extremely early. My son, the Man-Child, is in Kalamazoo. My son's winter coat is in Indiana. I can go to the closet and look at this coat that I bought him last year in anticipation of Kalamazoo. There is nothing more I can do until Sunday, when I will see his face and hear his music once again. I will think warm thoughts, however. Is this how men become men, by their mothers leaving them out in the cold? I don't like it. No. I don't like it one bit.
So, until Sunday, I will read. Till We Have Faces by C.S. Lewis once again is calling my name. It has snow and spiders and all sorts of things. It deserves a thorough re-read.