Mama, I finally used the snowshoes you got me for my birthday when I was in high school. Reminded me of the times we’d drive up the road a few blocks to Covington Middle School on cold winter nights way after the sun had gone down so only the parking lot lights and the headlamps of passing cars and trucks lit up the athletic field, covered by a heavy blanket of lake-effect snow, where we’d enjoy ourselves in the little bit of solitude we could find in suburban Detroit. You, my angelic mother so light in body and in soul would glide on top of the snow, barely breaking the crust. Whereas I trudged along violently in my snowshoes trying to break through the deep snow like a plough. Every time I lapped you I’d make sure you noted the achievement. “Mom, that’s three laps. How many laps are you on?” Usually, you’d just give me a Samantha Stevens nose twitch in response. That always cracked me up.