My connection with snow

     Having lived in the North for nineteen years, my feelings for my hometown are beyond words.

    In most people's eyes, the South represents gentleness, while the North symbolizes ruggedness. I, too, have longed for the South after reading countless articles describing it—longing for its meandering streams, evergreen trees, and mild climate, to the point that I often secretly lamented not being a woman from the South. But I know that I can never leave my beloved North, never leave its changing seasons, and never leave its winter snow.
    People describe snow as white sprites, light feathers; in short, snow is a symbol of purity and beauty, and it holds within it my beautiful childhood memories and fantasies.
    Winter in the North always comes suddenly. Just when people are still immersed in the joy of the harvest, the fluttering snowflakes arrive gracefully. As a child, I wasn't as sentimental as I am now. Wrapped in cotton clothes and gloves, I would ignore my parents' objections and run joyfully into the snow, oblivious to the snowflakes falling from the sky, my flushed face filled with indescribable excitement. I'd build a snowman, steal carrots, brooms, and even my mother's scarf from home, my face beaming with pride. Of course, the most joyful time was snowball fights with my friends, like a real battlefield, with real bullets, though I was reluctant to "sacrifice" myself. The white snowballs held all my beautiful childhood memories, but they eventually slipped from my grasp, shattering in the distance, leaving only a trail of recollections.
    I loved the so-called heavy snowfall, different from the lightness of tiny snowflakes. That indescribable weight made me want to embrace the earth. I can't explain why, but I just wanted to rush into the earth's embrace with the snowflakes, feeling its warmth.
    I thought each snowflake was a tiny angel, carrying a fairy's message to bring us joy.
    Now, my childhood friends have long since gone their separate ways, and I still stubbornly guard my own path in this snow-covered north. Every time it snows, I'm excited, but the indescribable regret can never be erased; the innocence of childhood can never be found again. I will still wear my cotton-padded coat, wrapping myself up tightly, leaving a series of straight or crooked footprints on the pristine snow with a crunching sound. Looking back, it's like walking from childhood, the innocence and naivety scattered along the path of growth gradually melting away in the snow.
    As I mature, I realize I can't live without snow. My envy of the red walls and green tiles of the Jiangnan water towns has faded. I don't know how bleak and lonely it would be if I were in a Jiangnan water town or a bustling southern city, where winter wouldn't be accompanied by snow.
    That pure, flawless, silvery-white expanse between heaven and earth seems to have become a kind of faith for me, ingrained in my bones.
    I am a woman who cannot live without snow, just as before.
    Outside the window, the snow continues.