Each Saturday morning, with Gazelles and shinguards and her team jersey, Mira and I make our way up the West Side Highway for Mira’s winter soccer league.
Yesterday, we stepped out of our apartment into the first real snow blanket of the winter. Mira began whooping with joy, and honestly I might have, too, if not for all that gear we had to schlep. It does take your breath away, the first real snow; it still does.
Away we went, and often ours were the first tracks. At various points we would see dog footprints, a lone bike, and once, to Mira’s delight, a very, very large sneaker footprint. Mostly though, it was just us plugging away with the gray Hudson, barely bobbing, calm and quiet, beside us.
About three quarters of the way through our trek, with the icy wind blowing us backwards at times, Mira said, “I wish that it was summer, Mama.” She had made dozens of snowballs, angels, and big swoops through the snow by then and was getting cold.
We talked, then, about commitment, about devoting yourself to something worth working hard for. She listened and held on to my mitten. She nodded, but who can ever tell what is going to sink in?
Once we were at the field and Mira had joined her teammates (indoors, of course), I chatted with some of the parents for a while and got lost in the small talk. When I looked up, there was Mira. Utter joy radiated from her face. Utter concentration radiated from her little body. She has found something to love and something worth, yes, walking miles through the snow for.
On the way back home, through town this time, we met a happy veggie snow man, and Mira whispered hopefully, “Do you think it will snow again tomorrow?”