Last Friday, I stole a day. It was given by the snow, which fell in dancing flakes and soft rolls of wonder, blocking roads and closing the hospital. The snow gave me a morning to sit with a steaming cup of freshly ground Tanzanian coffee and peel a pile of apples to make pale brown compote. The snow gave me the minutes and hours to clean my apartment, which, afterwards, shone silently with pointed corners. The white flakes allowed me to pick up my youngest daughter early from school and walk with her little fingers tucked inside my palm. The snow stole the day and wrapped it in cinnamon scented tissue paper, tied a scarlet ribbon on the top of the box. The snow gave me a day which I chose to not devote to action but to being in time, drifting at the speed of frozen white crystals.