The thoughts that bounced around the gray matter, and, for that matter, even made it to the sheets of my journal, were several different possible renditions when it came to the prompt: flakes.
Some of the notes I made became anecdotes of memories long since stored. Days spent with our aunt and uncle on their ranch. The nights always included a bedtime snack, and when I was asked what I wanted, the answer was cornflakes. I was perched on top of a kitchen stool - you know the old-fashioned ones that had a step that folded under the arborite, or sometimes padded seat. Beside me, our uncle filled two bowls with the requested snack, poured some milk over them - not too much, so they wouldn’t get soggy, and sometimes a little sugar, too. There we would sit, munching, and talking about my day riding Ginger. Before long, the bowls were empty and off to bed I went.
There is humour in this story, but not found until decades later - neither of us really liked cornflakes. I asked for them because he ate them with me, so he must like them. I suppose he obliged me because I was little. It’s still a good memory.
Taking the path back to the serene flakes of winter snow, as far back as I can remember, we spent hours wandering about with our tongues out trying to catch snowflakes. I still think it’s a fun thing to do on a not so blustery late fall, or winter day.
One of the best things is being able to capture a moment when one or two settle by themselves on a perch of some kind. Ogling their amazing shapes until another one drifts down on top of it. So you brush away the culprits, wait patiently, and hope to be gifted with another one of a kind sighting.
Yes, I do like the flakes of winter.