Do you see the four angel prints of smothered wings trampled by four girls’ boot marks in the white snow?  Do you see the dark vertical stripes of my Great-Uncle Mike’s maple tree, leafless against the soft blue sky?  Do you see me running down the hill, placing my red-mittened hand on the slate of the stone wall that my Grandpa built, as I curve into the driveway?  Do you see Grandpa waving to me from the window at Nanny’s house?  Waving to me to come inside, come in, come in, come in.  Do you see?