Snow Day

The school called at six in the morning: closed, on account of snow. From under his blankets Tomas heard his father groan in the next room, already dialing work to say he could not come in, his voice tight with the particular irritation of a plan gone wrong. A whole day rearranged, the father muttered, just like that. Tomas pulled the covers higher and went back to sleep.

But by nine, when the worst of the storm had passed and the street lay buried and silent, Tomas wandered downstairs and found the kitchen empty. Through the frosted window he saw his father outside in boots and an old coat, building a lopsided fort in the front yard, snow stuck to his eyebrows and a grin on his face. "I haven't done this in thirty years," his father admitted, patting another crooked wall into place. Tomas pulled on his own boots and knelt beside him without a word.

They worked together until their fingers ached and their cheeks burned red, saying very little, and somewhere in the quiet of it Tomas understood something. The inconvenience his father had grumbled about at six that morning had, by nine, quietly turned into the best part of the entire week.