Where Mondays are Saturdays and Fridays are any day of the week where they eat pancakes. Just this morning, they stood statuesque on the couch in their footed pajamas watching the snow. Later, my son ate a snowball like it was a juicy July peach & my daughter rubbed angel after angel after angel in mud-smeared snow as she smiled to the sky. A shared cream cheese sandwich on marbled rye, plus gummy bears. How satisfying the mail, even junk mail, that arrives after it sails through the door slot with a clank. The way they fully extend their arms to wave at the garbage truck & the men alighting on & off it as if watching a parade. When reading a book, they plop down into my lap like stones thrown in a shallow pool—they are in it. The big fat clock swings its pendulum like a dog chasing its tail & it never sounds alarmed. There are not enough sticks or pillows or potato bugs or bubbles or sprinkles or puddles & the cardinal who visits our feeder in the dogwood tree every day is ours, I’ve pinky-promised him. My children are falling in love with the world & stuffing their coat pockets with it: bits of paper, string, & coins as if preparing for a long voyage away from it, which maybe they are, their odyssey, our Ithaca, where the snow falls again & they lift up their chins & tilt back their heads to catch all that’s melting around them whole.