The snow slanted acutely as it fell from the Northeast. Snow dots and dashes slashed across the cone of light from above the back door. By dawn the clay flower pots of summer were scarce craters in elbow deep snow. The storm closed schools and granted Kim and Kent a play day at home.

After the snow-angels had wings and the canted snowman a disappointing celery stalk for a nose, the twin’s energies and imaginations went down the driveway to the road where the plows had morained mounds of gravel studded snow.

“Let’s make a big snow fortress.” Kent coaxed.

“OK.” Kim agreed and began hollowing out the dump truck sized heap with waterproof armfuls of snow, like their dad showed them before he moved away.

The sun had just skidded into clouds, when Kim burst into the kitchen’s chicken soup smell: “Mommy! Mommy! Kent’s bewried in the snow.”

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