Always Carry A Camera

I don't usually carry my camera.

Today, coming out of church, the air was filled with poofy, big, beautifully crystalline snowflakes. Of course, since it's not the first snow, it would've been hard to photograph against the light gray sky, light gray ground, or white van.

The children's hair was peppered with flakes, and it was cold enough that they were not melting quickly. As we went to climb up into the van my son said, "Mom, you have a perfect star on your head!"

"Why, thank you!" I replied.

"Let me see!" came the chorus from everyone else. So I dutifully aimed the top of my head towards each of the children.

"ooooh! It really IS a perfect star" they all said, admiringly.

I couldn't see it. I climbed into the front of the van and The Grand Lunar said, "Oh, that IS a perfect star!"

I lowered my head and the mirror, hoping to catch a glimpse of the much exclaimed-over flake. And sure enough, caught in the darker hair of my pulled-back bangs, was a beautiful, perfect, crystalline 6-point star of David. It was amazing. And fascinating.

As I gazed at it and wished for a camera, to aim awkwardly at my head, in macro mode, in the church parking lot, the warmth of the van's enthusiastic defrosting blast on the windshield made my lovely flake slouch and turn clear, then turn into an indistinguishable droplet on my head. Small and nondescript, with no sign that it had been something spectacular.

So ... I guess I should start carrying my camera with me. Just in case.