SNOW ❄️

Growing up on the west coast of Norway, winter was not a suggestion — it was a season that arrived.
Snow came in deep, quiet drifts.
Lakes froze solid enough for ice skates.
Hills turned into racetracks for akebrett — flat sled boards — and kjelke, the old wooden sleds with runners, cheeks burning red with cold and laughter.
Later, the winters softened.
The lakes could no longer be trusted with ice.
Snow, when it came, stayed only a day or two before surrendering to rain.
By the last years we lived in Norway, winter had become mostly grey and wet, more memory than reality.
Then came 2009 — the exception.
A real winter.
Snow before Christmas.
My husband and my oldest son were outside shovelling, carving paths through the white silence.
Inside, I was holding down a different kind of chaos.
Two toddlers — two and three years old — and a dog in labour.
Back and forth I went, juggling children, towels, reassurance, and urgency.
At one point, I had to help turn a puppy that was stuck — motherhood in its rawest, strangest form.
When I finally returned to the living room, breathless and exhausted, I genuinely thought something was wrong with me.

Snow.
Everywhere.
My two daughters, unnoticed and determined, had sneaked outside, filled their little buckets, and carried winter indoors.
The floor sparkled.
Tiny footprints told the story.
The house had become a winter wonderland.
I stood there, stunned — torn between disbelief and laughter — before realising:
This, too, was snow.
Not just weather, but memory in the making.
The kind that doesn’t melt.

🌛🌟🌜

💫Maggie

The Afterlove Voice 💫