With all the blizzarding lately it's been impossible not to look up. Or to click play, then get all sentimental.
Sixteen, sitting cross-legged on a beige suburban carpet,
thawing out two sets of hands and wearing wet wool socks.
You plopped us near the picture window in my parents' house
for front row seats to the lit blizzard falling from the sky.
At some point Lauridsen's "O Magnum Mysterium"
started rivering out Dad's dusty stereo speakers--
a holy hail of voices too divine to be a hymn.
Neither of us could explain how frantic snowflakes synched to solemn notes,
or why our chatter suddenly melted into stares and tears.
We'd stumbled upon the alchemy of little awed sighs.
You clasped my hands silently, like sisters in a Bronte novel--
We thought we must be the only two in Jersey to ever see real magic.
Now the snow's a fucking mess that ruins new suede shoes,
leaking into murky pools that turn subway steps to bear traps.
Still, I plop near gritty windowsills and stare out urban windows
matching our old spell again with anything falling slowly.
"Et admirabile sacramentum ut animalia viderent Dominum..."
I never could speak Latin.
When snow blows those words back to me I'll always think they mean:
"Little Girls never forget the time God let you see him."