We walk together, hand in hand, breathing the chilly air and breathing out small puffs of smoke. The special quiet of snow has descended. The familiar crunchy sound of fresh snow under our boots. We look ahead, and look at the small path that leads us to the middle of the plot of spruce trees. We step onto it and as soon as we are below the trees, look up. The world has become magical. The branches that shoot off the sides of the spruce have been accentuated with white trims. The trees look like they are stretching to eternity, and the silence becomes even more intense in this place. The beauty of the trees is breathtaking and almost dizzying. I take slow, deliberate breaths, unable to take my eyes off the treetops. Like a child, I start turning around myself, gyrating like a whirling dervish would. The world has become a whirlwind of branches and sky. I want to keep this moment, this memory, forever, like a figure in a snowglobe, and come back to it when I need some dizziness in my life, some motion, some force. The spruces in the snow are etched into my brain and I will not ever forget them, this moment, this beauty.