From The House of Edward

Cupid’s Snow

Perhaps it was nothing more than an errant arrow, meant to deliver Cupid’s usual dose of intoxicating love to some unsuspecting soul just in time for St. Valentine’s Day; an arrow intended to scratch a cold heart and turn everything bubble gum pink.

It could have been just a momentary distraction that caused his chubby little arm to slightly slip against the limb of his ancient bow - just a brief, tiny lapse in concentration that sent a shudder through the heavens as one wayward arrow flew off through the stratosphere, dreadfully off course, and straight into the side of a pillow shaped cloud that was placidly floating above us, on its way to deliver more snow to the north.

A scarlet arrow, that pierced the cloud’s middle with heart-shaped hole, sending its fluffy white cargo of feather shaped snowflakes down over our rooftops and into our gardens, washing us whiter than Lapland.

Perhaps that is all that it was. A mistake. After all it was the poor fellow’s busiest weekend, and mistakes do happen when one is too busy.

Or maybe, just maybe, that was not what it was at all.

Could it be the sweet archer meant this rare sight as a Valentine gift for us grey-swaddled southerners who usually spend wintertime only dreaming of snow?

If so, how can we ever adequately thank him for the beautiful sight that he gave us? We who spent our childhood winters longing for snowfall, who yearned to bring fat snowmen to life with orange carrot noses and black button eyes - we who wished for sleds and skates and snow angels. If it is true that this mischievous son of Aphrodite takes his work to heart, if he delights in bringing romance to the world each fourteenth of February, well he could not have done better this year.

For indeed, pure romance is taking a walk through the snow with your true love at midnight, when the clouds hang down low, stretching across the sky like glowing grey theatre curtains, closed tightly now after the day’s stellar performance of winter. It is standing together, hand in hand, in the midst of a silver white night, breathing in the cold, cold silence of snow. It is sharing a kiss under shining fir trees, whilst the rest of the world is asleep.

Midnight snow.

More romantic than diamonds or chocolates.

More poetic than a rose.

Mistake or not, Cupid did his job very well.

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And of course.... Edward enjoyed it too!

"People don't notice whether it's winter or summer when they're happy."

Anton Chekhov