I'm the kind of person who skips to the conversation when reading a book.
The snow outside the window was beautiful, white and glittering, like a Grandma Moses painting. I asked my mother if she liked the snow.
“Yes, I like the snow,” she said.
“Do you want to go out and play in it?” I asked her.
“No, I don’t think I’d like to play in it,” she answered, frowning just a little.
I teased her, “I thought you might like to make snow angels.” She was the one, after all, who had taught me how to them.
“I like snow angels,” she said, her face brightening.
Hannah piped in with the obvious question, “How would she make snow angels in a wheelchair?”
“She could make snow wheelies,” Grace answered.
The problem of making snow angels in a nursing home had been solved, though, with their gingerbread village. One of the residents had added this to the display.