The children remember snowmen, button eyes and smiles and rabbit-bitten carrot noses frosted at the tips. Hats and old scarfs strung to keep the snow-folk warm. They remember the soft magical confetti that drifted from above. They remember straining and craning their necks back, trying to catch snowflakes on their tongues.

Snow-fights were a daily occurrence then, a declaration of superior fort artisanship. Armadas of solid snow cannonballs swarmed the frosty frontier; those unlucky enough to be caught in the crossfire emerged as a scary combination of icicles and snot.

How could they forget their sturdy toboggan steeds racing down freshly snow-packed ravines? Their splotchy red cheeks, eyes aglow in pure bliss and enchantment, some losing hats and woven gloves in snowdrifts.

They will never forget the rich, creamy glee of hot chocolate topped with tiers of whipped cream and chocolate syrup and sprinkles. Ice skates slicing slick ice, bruises upon bruises blooming from falls and skids, sled collisions and planned run-ins.

The mystical snow-angels are not yet forgotten. The children willingly flock together to compete against one another: whose angel is best?

The children – they still remember, I hope. I remember, but I am a child no longer. Do children still play in the snow? I wouldn't know, but I hope some do. I hope they remember the ecstasy and pure joy of creating our own winter wonderland, free of charge.