While sorting a pile of family memorabilia, I found one of my old poems. Since I was only six years old, my mother was kind enough to write it down for me, on the back of an appointment card. Come Back, Summertime is childish and awkward, yet the sentiment still remains strong. “Somewhere across the snow, summer is there. When people look out across the snow, they see summer and want it.” So is it a paradox or simply fate, that I now live in a snow covered place?