Fallen Snow

A memory from younger Emily

My skin crawled with the dryness of winter.   Glancing at the red digits of the alarm clock, I exhaled and allowed myself a minute more of the warmth that had accumulated under the comforter.  It was a challenge to slow down my mind…what would I wear, had someone else finished off the cereal I planned to have, which tasks were most pressing in the day ahead. I lifted my head slightly to see a large, mostly empty room, and thought back to the days when I shared this room with my older sister. Certain nights when our minds could not rest, she would tiptoe across the dark ravine separating our beds.  “Climb in!”  I would whisper excitedly, and we would giggle together, whipping the sheets just to have them billow up, then settle, gently hugging our bodies once again.  We had that excited restlessness of getting into bed, and scrambling our legs around in the cold sheets as fast as possible. It was all we could do to contain ourselves so as not to disturb my sleeping parents.  After a bout of laughter, we would both suddenly hush to check that the  rhythmic snoring across the hall had not ceased.   

A sound above me now signaled that the heat was turning on, and the soft air breathed a few hairs across my forehead.  It now seemed like a dream, when I had stepped out of bed only a few hours ago, purposefully not looking at whatever remote hour of the night it was, to check the front yard.  Last night every kid in the town had gone to sleep with the excitement that the weatherman had brought by predicting a overnight snowfall.  In the middle of the night, I had convinced myself that the light coming through the window was brighter than normal, but soon found that there was nothing producing the imaginary luminescence; only moonlight and frozen grass.   

Knowing that I’d let a bulk of nighttime hours pass since I last checked, and not able to bear it any longer, I pulled back the sheets, and sat up.  My toes touched the floor, thankful for the wooly carpet, and I walked to the window, please, please, I begged!  My eyes were closed as a placed a palm on the pane - frozen!  I raised my eyelids slowly, and my heart leapt. While we slept, layers and layers of white frosting had been laid thick over the grey streets, and drizzled delicately on the spindly fingers of the trees, pointing in all directions.  

Down the stairs I flew, grabbing on to both railings, kicking my legs out, and leaping past the last five steps.  I beamed at the other happy souls in the kitchen, shuffling around in their slippered feet.  My mom stood with one hand on her hip, a spatula in the other, turning the sizzling, eggy toast on the griddle.  My dad's bent glasses hung around his neck, his hands measuring out dark brown coffee grounds.  My brother sat on on of two bar stools, his hands unoccupied, eyes staring out the window, soaking up the glistening snow in our back yard.  Wandering away from the sweet smells of the kitchen, I walked to the front of the house and pulled back the heavy red door.  The thin glass door never truly latched shut, so I nudged it open and felt the chilled air pierce through the thin cotton of my pajamas.  I  hugged myself, and took a step outside to absorb the landscape before me.  All was silent. No heaving school bus, no cars starting, no neighbors to be seen.  Only tiny flakes still settling on the infinite bed of others.  

Breakfast was hot syrup and melted butter, and an excited atmosphere all around us. Warm and full, we were ready to face the cold. We bundled up and rushed outside to make the first footprints.

I was walking in a new world, a strange world, as if the white snow were some kind of benevolent vegetation.  Only this transformation hadn’t taken centuries, just one night’s sleep.  My brother and I felt so alone in our winter wonderland, so anonymous with only our eyes showing through our masked faces.  We galoshed in our giant boots and shivered when the snow snuck up our sleeves or down our backs.  Realizing we were no longer confined to sidewalks, we strode down the middle of streets.  Next to the variety store, we leaned over the bridge to watch the water flowing beneath.  The running stream would work away at the banks of snow, finally freeing a chunk every few minutes, and we would watch the little glacier travel until the water swallowed it up.  We kicked the snow at our feet into the stream before continuing on our way.  

Rounding the long row of stores, I looked into the bookstore where many years ago my mom would take me.  After reading for an hour or so if we were lucky enough to find a free chair, we would buy go to the cafe in the front and split a huge cookie together.  It was in that cafe that I first tried cream soda, mesmerized by the name amidst all the other familiar flavors. Walking now with frozen fingertips and toes, I pictured us walking into the cafe to drink a hot chocolate, but the empty, snow-covered lots and dark store fronts told me that no one was working today.  

My brother and I ran to the benches in the center of the shops, and fell backwards onto them, knowing our landings would be softly padded.  Upwards we stared, the sky a nameless hue, our eyes taking in the infinite, both lost in thought.  After an unknown amount of time, we got to our feet, walking down the row of abandoned shops.  At the "Happy Cook" store, we packed snowballs and tried to land them in the “o’s” of the white sign letters, howling with victory at each success.

It was a long trudge back up the hill, and we walked more quietly now, tired from our day of adventure.  The thin, bare trees stood beautifully and solemnly against the dusk sky.  Once home, we peeled off wet layers and slurped hot soup, the warm bowls defrosting our hands.  Finally we lay down next to the cat in front of the crackling fireplace, all of us exhausted.  My mom's George Winston CD played on the speakers upstairs, and I listened with my eyes closed.  The music accompanied the reel of film playing in my mind, or perhaps created it, the deep notes echoing the darkness of the night, the sweet high notes, the innocence of the snowfall.  As the piece ended, I opened my eyes to see our clothes hanging, chunks of matted snow melting from our wool scarves.  In the quiet now left by the end of the piano, my sister said she was tired and went off to her room.  I realized that I was sleepy too, and said goodnight, stopping only in the kitchen to pour a glass of water.  I stood sipping it, stalling in hopes that someone else would head up to bed so I wouldn't have to go up alone. When I was younger, I would call out shamelessly for a parent to carry me up the stairs, but now I was older, and without a reason to call.  So I slowly climbed the stairs, and turned on the overhead light in my room. 

I sat on the bed where the glorious day had started; it had been everything I’d hoped for.  My eyelids were heavy, and by acknowledging that, I’d say goodbye to the day.  The snow would be there tomorrow, only this time with footprints and tire tracks.  My mom would fret about getting into work, my dad would ask us to shovel the driveway, and slowly the normalities of life would creep back in. In the gray of winter, I often wished for a magical day like this one. I inhaled—both empty and heavy. We had spent the whole day together, but as time wore on, there’d be pieces of today that only I would remember.