It's naptime, but I can't fall asleep. My room is bathed in sepia-tone mist. A few rays of light sneak through the drawn wooden blinds. All the lights are off, but I can't sleep.

I rise from the cocoon of blankets on my little wooden bed and just stand. What could I do, just in this scarce space? I look around, my mind is young and I wish for snow in the middle of August. Of course, I know, even at my young age, snow in August is not possibly. But I could make a snowstorm, I know I could.

I walk to my door and cautiously check for my mom. When no sign of her is to be found, I dart across the hall to my bathroom, remove a bag of cotton balls from under the sink, and dart back, shutting my bedroom door behind me.

I place the bag of fluff on my bed and join it. Feeling the soft puffs of cotton in my hand, I know I have the power to create the perfect snowstorm. It could even be good enough for snow angels!
Slowly, carefully, I stand upright on my bed. Contemplating the space needing to be "snowed" upon, I reach into the plastic bag and pull out a handful of the dryest, warmest snow ever. I throw my fist out above the floor and realease; the storm has begun!

As I repeat the process, my eyelids become heavier and heavier. Soon, the snowflakes are all scattered about, gone along with my energy. I lay back in my bed and fall into a warm sleep that can only be understood by those who have felt it. I am content among the light and the snow and my dreams.

Shortly enough, as all good things must, my nap comes to an end. I can feel a change in the light through my closed eyes; I can sense a presence. So I slowly open one eye and see my dad standing in the doorway, in his suit, home from work. He walks over as I sit up, having forgotten my snowstorm somewhere in my dreams.

He sits on the end of my bed, looks around and says, "What happened in here?"

A smile grows on my little girl's face and I reply, "A snowstorm Daddy!"