It was December 20. The day known as "Suzy Day" in our home.
The day our little Suzy passed away in 2013.
The day I go visit her in our backyard and place a rock on her grave.
But this December 20 I couldn't.
It was so quiet that morning when I woke up. No sound coming from cars on the roads and a different sort of light coming in through the blinds.
Between the cold temperatures, having to dig trenches for our little dog and making sure the bird feeders were well stocked, I planned on spending most of the time hibernating inside.
Except I saw my grasses. Tall and marking the place of that new garden bed. I'd planted them in the front yard so they'd catch the setting sun. I've yet to trim them ever because I love to look at them swaying in the breeze. They are the holdouts. And this day they inspired me to spend a bit more time outside, with camera in hand.
Though I didn't venture from my yard.
The snow was light and feathery and I could sweep it with a broom. It landed on the delicate remnants of plants, filled all the nooks of the yard and created a roof over the pet cemetery, seemingly offering extra protection for our missed friends, as well as blanketing Suzy's special resting spot.
It brought contrast and definition to an otherwise monotone yard of lives well-lived and new ones waiting to regenerate, where it stayed for days until the rain and warmth melted it away.
This wasn't a change of season, it was just a change in days... in weather. An opportunity to see my yard with different eyes.
An impermanent art installation that vanished as quickly as it arrived.
Reminding me of life's impermanence.