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A few months ago, my city got several inches of snow overnight. The condo association where I live likes us to move our vehicles so they can keep the parking lots clear, so before I needed to get on Zoom for another meeting I donned my coat, mittens, and boots to move my car. When I stepped outside, I was surprised to discover someone had already brushed the new accumulation of snow off my car, so it was ready for me to get in without sending a cascade of flurries onto my seat when I opened the door.

I have an old, fading snapshot sitting on my desk. Not sure how it got there. It’s a three inch by three inch picture from a long-ago December in 1969. I was thirteen, and my family was visiting relatives in Florida over our Christmas break. My aunt, uncle, and two of my cousins are standing outside the door of their home. It’s a family photo I’ve gazed at now and then throughout the years. But today I looked at it and spied something I don’t believe I’d noticed before. My older sister Nina (eighteen) stands on the far left of the photo camouflaged by trees behind her, a few branches in front of her, and the shadow of leaves on her and the house to her right. (She probably thought she was far enough away to be outside the picture). What adds to the camouflage is her white sweater against the white of the house, dark slacks that fade into the shadows near her feet, and dark glasses.