Frost ferns grow on glass here this morning when I open the kitchen door to let Bree and Mason out to go potty.
A sight I have not seen since a child living in Inglewood in a white clapboard two bedroom, one bath bungalow built after World War II, one of others along a street where the opposite side holds imposing pre-War brick homes.
I've lost count of the recent nights with single digit lows, faucets left to drip, frost on the storm door that opens to our kitchen porch.
It is only this morning that ferns appear on the glass.
I could google this phenomena and tell you exactly what conditions cause this if I were so inclined. I'm not.
I grab my phone and snap pictures and call for RH to bring the camera.
I know the ferns won't stay long, and they don't.
But for a few moments we are lost in a magic world of crystal gardens that may never appear again.