I pass a man on Bloor Street, gleefully squealing into his phone. He bends down to pick up a handful of the freshly fallen snow, shoving it into the screen, like he’s giving someone a first taste of chocolate pudding. I smile, of course, and walk on, but as I take those few steps forward, he beckons me over, flips the phone to face me and enthusiastically orders, “Say hello to my son!” I wave to the 8-year-old. “Hi! How are you?” The little boy giggles and then dodges out of camera view, which I would do if I suddenly had a strange woman’s grotesquely wide face monopolizing my screen, too. “Has he not seen snow before?” I ask. “No, no. He lives in Vietnam. Never seen snow!” Soon after, I bid the giddy duo farewell, but turn around occasionally and watch the father zip around to larger patches of snow on the sidewalk, picking up more handfuls of the magical winter dust, tossing it up in the air for his son to see, over and over again, genuinely losing his shit while doing so.

And then it occurs to me that, jeez, we all once had a first time seeing snow, too, and that all the bigger things this world provides — sun, precipitation, life sciences in general, everything I will never come close to understanding — is starting to make me lose my shit, too.

GUYS. It’s the first big snowfall of the year, but let me tell you, my heart is warm enough to melt all these flakes within a minute.