"Think it'll snow today, Kyle?" My mother picks my friend and I up from school as it gets colder. We climb into the car - I in the front, and Kyle in the back - and he sighs.
"I dunno," he says, "Either way, heard the Pass was great." There is a juice box-sized carton in the cup holder. It's chilled tea, but Kyle never liked it. I plunge in right away, not caring whether or not I'd get sick from drinking too fast. The air grew colder.
"Would you guys like hot chocolate tomorrow?" My mother asks, "I know this one place on the way." I smirk.
Kyle and I were eight. Then we were nine, ten, and eleven. Dylan, his little brother, grew from four to seven. When it would first snow, we'd all meet in Derek's backyard, a place covered in patches of snow and bits of dry, forested land only a few square feet large. The three of us would run about, establishing good places for hiding out and stashing snowballs. We'd then set time limits on Kyle's iPod, probably just five or six minutes, and "share" Dylan's extra help as we hid and threw snowballs at one another. The first year, I climbed over the fence myself, getting in trouble and grounded for a week.
The next year, Dylan and I teamed up for a whole ten minutes, beaning Kyle with the snowballs quite efficiently. That was followed by the dog in the following year. The last year that we had played in the snow, we had all gotten too cold. That was the day that Kyle had taught me to play video games.
Then - BAM! - middle school happened. Kyle's family got a divorce, and Dylan started to get more of his own friends. I'm now thirteen, and I watched the fence last year for several hours.
"I'd love some," Kyle laughed. I swear I saw snow.