On the day after Christmas, Indianapolis received several inches of snow. We were in a blizzard warning for most of the day, and the entire state (as well as this part of the Midwest) was silenced with a cozy blanket of white. The weather shut down the city--the malls were closed, even--and the fiance and I were both allowed a day off. We wished that our spare day could've been spent in Iowa, but we knew, logically and wholeheartedly, that we never would've made it back to Indianapolis safely had we left later. (We had pulled into town around midnight Christmas Day, as it were, just before the flakes began to fall.)
In addition to the seven, eight, and nine inches (the true depth is up for debate) of snow we received in that storm, around three inches of cold, wet, flakes fell last night and into today. When driving to a baby shower earlier this afternoon, I noted the beauty of the weather--the fragile, gentle crystals. The delicate slowness. How they clung to each branch, each eave. How they quieted and softened the harshest of sounds and lights, and made everything a bit more magical.