I wrote this Monday as part of a writing prompt in my writers group, Writers of The Woodlands.

I wouldn't say that I hated it, because I know that I loved it. It was only when I tumbled on my face, too covered in thick clothing to pick myself up, did I have a reason to voice displeasure.

The white snow surrounded me and now covered me, causing a bit of burn to my nose and cheeks. I cried, as any three-year-old would.

I'm sure my parents eventually picked me up and brushed me off. Warmed my face once more. But it is for certain they did not attempt to do so without taking a photo first. I still have it.

My eyes squinting to rush the tears out in order to gather some type of urgency from my parents, if not my older brother. Thirty years later I find it fine they didn't rush. In fact, I'm rather thankful they didn't. Had they been overly sensitive to the simple woes of a three-year-old, there are plenty of memories I would have missed out on.

I think this photo is a depiction of my childhood - any good childhood, for sure.

Colorado is a home away from home. It is a glorious state especially during the times of the fall - my fall, which would be winter.

I still remind myself of that picture when I hit the slopes. As bundled as the little brother on "The Christmas Story" and as out of breath as I was when I tumbled.

I think life will just continue to be like that. My face covered in snow, sitting on my rump crying, waiting for a helping hand. It will come, in due time, but not until a photo is taken. Not until I am able to appreciate that stumble. That tumble. That fall.

I love the snow and I love the mountains, although I'm sure I hated it for a very short moment. In the grand scheme of things, I'll always be a small child on a snow hill - sitting in my helplessness, waiting for just a little help. And I'm thankful for those moments. It's moments like those that offer such great memories. Such great stories.