My husband’s soft, hurried pad was what first woke me to the storm’s early-morning flame, at the exact moment when the ice had grown too heavy to suspend aloft cloud and came blazing down upon roof and car hood, filling the hole our neighbor boys had dug in the sand pit.
Electric-teemed sky turning summer-scape the bluegray of February. And in the wizarding light, we were just ten, playmates running to collect frozen magic stones from a world transformed.
Between deep sleeps, when the earth wakes us to its enchantment, we remember our spirits, and—for a moment—understand the supernatural.

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