New York City, March 14, 2017

★★★★ Wind groaned at the door and the five-year-old yelled at the window: “It’s icy on our window! Get off, ice!” The ice, which was not snow even if it once had been, clung in thin sloppy streaks. The clicking noises that had announced the failure of the blizzard to become a blizzard faded. A hand stuck out the window found that what was whiting out the midday view was mostly blowing rain. A heavy chunk of slush fell from somewhere above and banged into the window frame. The decision not to try buying saucer sleds the night before, at the first sign of faltering in the forecast, had been the right one. Daylight brightened and dimmed again. Thunder cracked. By late afternoon, in time for the rescheduled and relocated viola lesson, what was falling had turned back into snow. Slush banks and ice dams barred the way. The five-year-old roared defiance as he scrambled over an impediment. This was the fun part of winter, he said. There was no need for snow pants, he added. The older boy, luckily, was able to get by in low waterproof shoes. Someone was carrying a large and long-leafed potted plant along the sidewalk. The thick layer of slush on the crosswalk had been trampled so dense and clear that the pavement markings were legible through it. The trains were all running local, with rides at ease among peaceful expanses of open seats. Stray tiny drops of melted snowflakes shone in the younger boy’s hair under the train lights. Outside the cozy apartment, with its sound of viola and smell of soup, the snow had become picturesque in its swirling. It traced the tops of the gray stone lintels and quoins on an otherwise unnoticeable dark red brick building. Heading home, the five-year-old stomped across the street with enough force to send globs of dirty slush flying. The snow tapered and stopped. A chunk of ice plunged from a building face and shattered on top of the remains of prior ice chunks. More ice was beginning to slide over the edge of the curving roof of the Apple store, a huge sheet of it, trickling water. The five-year-old said he was going to make a snowball and reached for a snowbank. The surface was impenetrable.