Bicycles on the Roof

"Mom, there's bicycles on the roof."
Another freak windstorm has passed through our neighborhood, and in the aftermath of this one our roof is decorated with dozens of bicycles. But this time as I survey the damage, I chuckle, because I'm dreaming. I must be dreaming. The lush green lawn tickles my bare feet as I stand gazing up at the roof, shielding my eyes from the sun and it's January... yep, I'm dreaming.

"Mom, there's bicycles on the trees, too!"
It's Lauryn's musical little voice in my ear. She still has the squishy r's and l's of a toddler despite her otherwise grown-up vocabulary. I can feel her soft dewey cheek against mine as she puts her lips close to my ear to share her exciting news about the bicycles. ...wait a minute... Lauryn's awake, I'm not dreaming, there are bicycles on the roof? The fog of sleep is abruptly wiped from my brain, and I'm out of bed, on my feet, and running to the window with a speed that would shock anyone familiar with my morning habits. A moment later I lay my cheek against the cold window in an effort to slow down my racing heart, and finally I can release the breath I've been holding ever since I realized I wasn't dreaming. It comes out at first in a shudder and then with a syncopation that echoes my relieved laughter, leaving a long bouncing foggy spot on the glass.

There are icicles on the roof. They hang from the gutters on the house and adorn every tree branch in the backyard. Icicles.

"See, Mommy? See those pretty bicycles?"
Yes, Lauryn. I see the pretty bicycles.