It’s 3 am.
We are walking out on our suburban street. It’s been snowing all afternoon, and it will be all night. We’re meandering through ankle deep snow, watching fluffy snowflakes the size of gumballs glitter under the streetlights as they drift softly to the ground.
It’s 3 am. No one is awake. No one but us.
We’re walking in the middle of the street. Looking up at the sky watching a galaxy of snowflakes fall slowly towards us. It is perfectly quiet.
It’s the kind of silence that makes you realize you are awake while the world is asleep.
It’s perfect.
The weight of my worries dissolved from my shoulders. The cold crisp air stung my skin; the snowflakes tickled my face.
We were wandering with no place in mind.
No plans.
No destination.
We were blissfully ignorant of any concern.
There were no worries about tomorrow, no fretting over last week, no concern about coworkers.
We were just, alive. Completely immersed in experiencing this snowy night in our quiet city.
We were alive.
We were home.
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