It was barely fully fall but the weather seemed intent on ensuring none of them would be able to ignore the coming winter. Morning frost. Freezing rain. Evening flurries. Weekend snow.
“So much for global warming,” Moise moaned.
“It’s Climate Change, Pops,” Ben interjected. “It makes mayhem to let us know how much we’d messed things up.”
“Whatever it does,” the older man waved at the window, “it is not as it should be.”
“Perhaps,” Bernice entered with arms full of pine bows, lights, and tinsel, “but we can still make it as festive as we want in the interim.”
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Na'ama Yehuda 
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