The sound of smiles resonate in a deafening roar around me. As the bitter cold chills my bones, I stop to look up at the white sky. How can such menial precipitation mixed with the finality of a semester bring so much joy?

It amazes me every year, around this time how the world becomes superficially pure. The soft blanket that covers this filthy world brings such peace for a moment. Even the talk and giggles as friends jaunt through the aput[1] seem like soft reverent whispers, insulated murmurs.

Eskimos have over 50 words for this phenomenon and blessing. Something so simple can bring such joy.

Yet we let this feeling fade as the chill sets in, as we step in that unwelcoming shlim[2].

This serenity flees our all too hardened hearts. This elegant attla[3] become naklin[4].

We let this happen. The murmurs have turned into distressing shouts. We argue it is our nature. We just settle that life isn’t beautiful nor could ever be.

But it is. Oh so beautiful.