Snow Day


Adam Oster

I pull my comforter in tightly around me as the first rays of sunlight peer in through my window and attempt to wake me. I hear the faint cries of my mother from downstairs as she attempts to rouse me from my slumber.

School. Why ruin this perfectly good cocoon of body heat and sleep to go sit in a cold room for eight hours just to learn about the French Revolution?

A scream breaks through the quiet morning air. My sister, screaming as I hear her footsteps bound up the stairs. The door to my room is flung open, slamming against the wall and causing everything on my walls to shutter.

“SNOW!” she screams from my now opened doorway before she disappears again.

My mind works through the information slowly before a smile finally crosses my face.

As fast as I am able, I bolt to the window and pull apart the curtains. A sight greets my eyes that is greater than any other sight possible.


As far as the eye can see, white upon white with even more white still falling from the sky. There is so much white, one might be mistaken in thinking that God forgot to color in the day, or even make the lines.

I rush down the stairs, still in my pajamas, and run to the kitchen, which I find empty. I speed to the den, where I see both my mother and father sitting comfortably on the couch, a steaming mug in each of their hands. They smile to me as I enter the room.

Before I can even utter a syllable of the important question I wish to ask them, my dad says, quite simply, “Snow day, son.”

My smile breaks even wider and I look to my mom. She nods her agreement and then says, “Go on.”

I fly back up the stairs to my bedroom. There’s no time to waste. Not on a snow day.