The first snow of the season in NYC brings out the children, and the child in every NYCer. Zinnia is no exception.

Zinnia awoke to a wonderland of snow-edged trees, snow-lined roofs and water towers, snow-softened parked cars, snow-muffled traffic noises. This is the best time to go outside, time is of the essence here.

As the day progresses, the snow wears thin. The mood in Central Park is joyful, but the magic is diminished. By late afternoon, the snowpeople who sprouted from the ground like mushrooms, speckled with dry leaves and dirt, have begun to slump a little.

People elsewhere may have their very own backyardfuls of snow: here in NYC, the snow belongs to everyone. Elsewhere, there are meadows, fields, valleys where unspoiled snow lies in “blankets”: here in NYC, every square inch has been sledded on, balled up and thrown or lain in or at the very least gazed at, every patch appreciated and well-used. Zinnia is glad there is enough to go around.

Tomorrow, it will all be gone.

Zinnia herself and all of her apparel are made from my friend Jennie’s daughter’s outgrown clothes, with two exceptions. Jennie said it’s a little hard to give up the small dresses, to accept the fact that her daughter will not fit into them again.

The two exceptions: 1) the fuzzy lining of Zinnia’s boots is cut from old athletic socks, and 2) Zinnia’s puffer jacket is made from Jennie’s 2017 NYC Marathon heat sheet, and will therefore actually keep Zinnia warm.

An eerie earth, a changed and strange
vast open wide expanse,
Where, up above, each dainty snowflake,
had started its downward dance
And settled, on the serene landscape,
clothed, in its simple dress,
Where we imprint our patterns too,
across a snowbound wilderness.

—from “Patterns in the Snow” by Ernestine Northover