As surely and completely as the snow fell on our small town, a spell floated down with the snow, and suddenly, we were outside the rhythms, sounds, and textures of our every-day life, outside our habits, outside time. The South was no longer the South, and time skipped the entire mid-week. The storm took and it gave. It stripped some every-day items that we use without thinking and replaced them with gifts that sent K and me back in time, gifts for almost all the senses.

It was more than just the free time provided by several days home from work and school. That’s merely vacation, and the fact that we stayed home makes it similar to a fairly typical winter break. No, it was the unexpected nature of it: we’d heard about the coming storm for a week, but it still wasn’t in our plans, which this time of year include the simple repetitiveness of daily and weekly life: morning rush, afternoon weariness, evening ballet, jazz, religious education, shopping, choir practice, and the thousand other things that make a routine. Suddenly, it was all in the air with the flakes, and as the snow fell, it became obvious that we were given a bit of breathing space. Still, it wasn’t just time off. There was more to the spell.

The white of the snow transformed our surroundings into a lovely monochromatic landscape that paradoxically highlighted all the shades I’d never noticed. Giving everything a uniform background highlights the red of our neighbor’s house’s brick, the off-white of our tired shutters, the dark brown of the Sweet Gum seed balls that always litter our front yard.

The freezing temperatures were such a change from the sweater-weather weekend, so similar to the temperatures of southern Poland. Before our afternoon sledding expeditions and our evening walks, we slipped layers on everyone, bundled the family in mittens, scarves, and hats. The frigid temperatures inspired me: I pulled out old wool socks I hadn’t worn in years, socks I’d bought back in the 90s before heading to Poland, then shoved my newly-bulky feet into boots I’d bought with the socks, boots I’d paid a fortune for but which now cost approximately fourteen dollars for the almost twenty years I’ve owned them.

Ironically, even when Pax — what an odd name for a storm — took, it gave something back, often of vastly greater value. The most obvious thing it ripped away from us was our cars. They sat idle for days, piled with snow — even the minivan in the carport — and we reverted to walking. Not that there was anywhere to go, but there was everywhere to go. Just to walk about in the snow was a treat in itself: we went out for a walk each night, thrilled with the crunch of snow underfoot and the yelling and whooping of L and her closest neighborhood friend, W, who spent almost every afternoon and evening with us. They threw snowballs at us, and we went back and forth with “remember when” moments. Remember walking back from ballroom dance classes to the bus station in Nowy Targ the winter before we married? Remember walking to midnight Mass Christmas Eve, the sound of ice underfoot like fingernails down a chalkboard? Remember walking down to Adam’s for drinks and conversation with Johnny and friends? When it comes to walking in a snowy night in Lipnica, I could reminisce for days: the small radius of my daily life and the absence of a car filled me with innumerable such memories.

So waking today, we knew the end was nearing. The Boy still looked from the window, captivated, but K and I knew the forecast high would turn almost all the snow to slush.

“Bubbles!” the Boy continued squealing as he’d been doing for days. He was eager to get outside, and watching L and W sledding in the backyard simultaneously frustrated and excited him. But once the nap concluded and he finished his lunch, we all went outside to play in the slush.

We took an afternoon walk once Babcia took the Boy back inside. A last jaunt.The streets were covered in muddy slushies, and cars were slowly reappearing on the road, sending frigid spray from their tires as they passed.

There were still children playing outside, but conditions weren’t optimal for much of anything: too wet for snowballs, too soggy for sledding. About the only thing to do was jump in slush and watch the spray fly as I’d done just before heading out.

Returning from the walk, the decay was evident everywhere. L’s snowman had morphed into something almost unrecognizable, the fallen carrot the only sign of its past glory.

I stayed out, shoveling the slush off the drive so K could get out tomorrow for work — the coming drop in temperature ensured by the cloudless sky threatened to turn the driveway into an ice block — and that’s when it really hit me.

The spell, the magic and all it contained, was over. K would return to work tomorrow, and L and I would venture out to do the week’s shopping.

The white sheen was disappearing, the plain mud and grass underneath it reminding us that the only thing that makes such spells so magical is their temporary nature.