To remember.

You'd woken suddenly, two hours into your nighttime sleep. You screamed in that way you scream when you don't know why you're awake, don't like being awake, and don't know how to quit being awake. I held you as you struggled, trying to whisper and sing to catch your attention, stop the crying. Nothing was working.

And then I had a thought. And we stepped over to the window, turned the plastic rod on the blinds, and the grand, soft, white world was shown to you. White hillsides, black trees, soft gray sky.

You froze, settled your head on my shoulder, and sighed a little tiny sigh. I held you, mesmerized, as I watched you drink in the beauty of your first snowfall.

A few minutes later, I turned you away from the window, just to see. You lifted your head, shifted your weight, and laid it on my other shoulder-- your face now pointed toward the window again.

I didn't move again for quite a while.

Bird, you saw what I see in the snowfall tonight.

That was pure magic for me. Thank you.