Oh, snow.

Trudging through inches upon inches of snow always reminds me of my childhood. Those Canadian winters were harsh and in all of my 14 years growing up there, I can only recall schools closing down once, when I was in the eight grade. Some white powder and ice never stopped anyone. We celebrated it, with winter festivals like Carnaval in Quebec and Winterlude in Ottawa.

We didn't have a car back then, and my mother and I took three different buses and walked miles upon miles once a week to get to my piano teacher's home, located in a far more affluent part of town. The one-hour lesson never seemed worth the amount of time we spent on the road to me. I hated the way I felt inside, watching all those big and beautiful houses silently go by as I blankly stared out the windows. I resented my mother for putting me through it. I slumped down to my knees once, simply because I no longer wanted to go on, and sat like that in the icy cold snow like a statue, refusing to move or even try. I cried and cried and was utterly miserable and repeatedly demanded she flag down a cab to take us home. But she said nothing. She waited and waited and waited until I was too numb to be stubborn and proud anymore and finally got up to quietly follow her. We got home so late I didn't even eat dinner that night.

Tough love. Snow reminds me of tough love.