Holy Tornado

To see the soul of your comrade listen carefully to his music.

Monday, February 20, 2006

One cold winter day in 1946, when I was seven, I put on my warm coat and a wool scarf and went outside to play. I was bored from spending too much time in the house. I wandered up near the street where our boat was sitting, and behind it was a fifty gallon oil barrel, still intact, but the top was dark with rust, and had a thin layer of ice covering it.

As I looked at the dark, icy glaze, a light fall of snow began. The flakes were very small, and danced lazily around me.
I saw one land on the barrel top, and leaned closer to see it better.

There are no words to express my absolute amazment, when I realized that the snowflakes that fell from the sky were actually shaped like the ones I cut out of paper.
I don't know how long I studied that snowflake but it made an indelible print in my memory. Other flakes landed around it, each with it's own distinct pattern.

I assumed all of God's angels were up there with scissors, making pretty snowflakes for me.
Perhaps they were.

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