I was extremely excited.
The year was 1997, and I was turning twelve years old.
In our household, birthdays weren’t a very big deal, except my own, to myself.
We had gone into Stockholm a week earlier, and my father had taken me into a humongous shop, filled with stuff of my dreams.
He told me to pick my favourite thing in the whole store, and he would see what he could do about possibly purchasing it for me.
I jog-walked around the entire store, waiting for something to reach out, and ensnare me.
Finally, something did. Nestled in between a train set, and an enormous bag of glass marbles, it was immediately the only thing I cared for.
A perfect, round snow-globe. I had to have it. I quickly checked the price tag, and found it to be reasonably priced.
Then, I shouted very loudly to my father, beckoning to him like a man possessed.
I walked out of the store with my father five minutes later, him holding my snow-globe, and me holding his warm, leathery hand.
This was why I was so excited, on that cold November night of 1997.
I couldn’t wait to hold my snow-globe again.