The snow that has blanketed the lower mainland for much of the past two months is finally gone. While I’ve certainly done my fair share of complaining about it and wishing for it to melt, I’m also sad that it’s gone.

Sad, because Clara loves the snow and I love Clara.

“Mom, can we go winter camping, when I’m better?”

Footprints in the snow, an orange tent, glowing in the winter night. Girls nestled deep inside down sleeping bags, whisper and laugh as the snow piles up around them. Quiet stars shine down. They slumber deeply.

Pink boots, a puffy pink coat, a fleecy pink pom-pom-covered hat roll down a wintery slope. Snow on mitts, mitts in mouth, icicles drip on a little pink tongue. Snowflakes caught in out-to-here eyelashes.

“Mom, can we go winter camping, when I’m better?”

Bare legs on white sheets, red and green and blue lights, glaring from bedside monitors. A restless night amidst bags of ice and cold washcloths pressed to a feverish brow.

Pale blue gown, oxygen mask, a stark constellation of freckles on winter white skin. Hands held, love professed, plans made for a family outing never taken.

“Mom, can we go winter camping, when I’m better?”