Sometimes there would be storms on the mountains.

The children would whimper and huddle together under the thick rugs.

The mother would stand by the hearth and make soup, sneaking wistful glances out the window.

The father would trudge through the snow, tired and worn out, looking forward to a hot stew and a warm thick rug.

The grandmother?

Ah, grandmother would smile that knowing smile that only grandmothers have.

She would sit back in her chair, pull the rug off the huddling children, and tell them a story while the mother served bowls of hot stew.

And her story would only end when all the children were asleep.

And then the father would come home, cold and gruff, his beard covered in frost.

And then mother would reheat the stew and talk to father about money and work
and grown-up things.

And grandmother would smile that knowing smile that only grandmothers have.

She would get up from her chair, cover the children with the thick rug, and watch the storm while sipping hot stew.

And she would cry.

She would cry because had once been the child whimpering in fear of the storm, the worried wife hoping her husband would return, and the hushed parent speaking about money and work and meaningless, grown- up things.

And then she would smile, because she knew that the storm would pass.