Snow flakes drifted randomly, enveloping the green of Central Park in a cold blanket, and drawing out a Russian's memories.
So long ago he, Dimitry and Papa were outside to dig the snow away around their home.
A snowball flung, laughter. It was easy to hide, being so small but eventually big brother found him.
Sometimes a snowball hit his face, sending him into the dacha with near frozen tears from the stinging.
Steam rose as Mama undressed him, briskly toweling him dry, giving him hot tea, warm black bread with jam and kisses on the head, consoling him.
"Sigh..."