Snow

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Nobody asks you if their snow will bother you. Nobody asks what are you gonna do? They don’t wait and they don’t really listen, careless of what might’ve gone before. And there is just snow.

But I had such plans, you’ll say. And there will be nobody in the room to listen. I had such plans and they involved fire, but now the snow has put it out. My fire’s turned to ashes in my hand. Adventure dissipates over the green. Just snow.

Someone will rage from across the street, crying, shouting. Are you okay, they’ll ask. Are you alive? They won’t see you through the thick white downpour and you won’t see them. And you’ll think maybe it was the snow that asked.

Yes, I’m alright, snow, you’ll whisper. And then, it will be true. Because you said it, and how could it not?

You’ ll become alright, even though it won’t be the alright you knew before. A different alright, post-snow.

You’ll dwell, you’ll try and reminisce about who you used to be when the earth was dry and ever so often, the snow will call out to you – are you alright?

And you’ll remember what’s happened, you’ll remember the snow and who you are now. You’ll learn to walk through the snow, careful at first, afraid you might fall. And then, more bold, you’ll walk as if, in your heart, there was always snow. And if you fall, you’ll say it was a bit of dry land, it threw you off guard.

And you’ll get back up again, for you have things to do, despite the snow.

And one day, you’ll stand outside some foreign door, the words prim on your tongue – would you be bothered by my snow?

But you’ll never get to ask. Look up. It’s already snowing now.

Want more? My collection of stories, Grimmest Things is available now on Amazon.