Ben’s first Snow-daze

Ben’s first Snow-daze is the kind of small celebration you don’t plan for. It happens in the middle of a regular day and suddenly the day has a different shape.

He’s holding a paper cup with both hands, like it needs steadying. The shaved ice rises up in a soft mound, topped with a cloud of whipped cream, and below it the colors are loud and playful—cereal-bright, confetti-like, impossible to ignore. A few plastic spoons stick out at angles, suggesting sharing, or at least the possibility of it.

Calling it “snow” inside a shop always makes me laugh a little. Real snow used to mean silence and permission: streets going quiet, time stretching, the familiar world turning unfamiliar in the best way. Back then, snow-days felt like the weather had reached down and rearranged the rules.

This is the gentler version. No storm, no canceled plans—just cold sweetness on your tongue, a quick reset, a reminder that you can still be surprised by something simple. Ben looks pleased in that very specific way people do when they realize they’ve found a new favorite.

Not a blizzard. Not a memory. Just a bright, melting little moment you can hold in your hands.