It is cold this morning. The snow sparkles with a crystal hardness that only happens on clear mornings when the smoke from chimneys swirl straight into the snap-cold air. Sounds are sharper, colours are crisper. Everything is in detailed relief as if they are rendered through a high-contrast camera lens, and not the naked eye. I imagine someone biting into a hard apple, and being able to hear the crunch of teeth breaking through its skin a mile away.
When I think of how small my feet must have been in the deep footsteps of my father’s, it reminds me of the time I followed him all the way to the back fields to find the perfect Christmas tree. I hopped from bootprint to bootprint, soft, powdery snow covering my snowsuit, spraying into the air as my small body strained to keep up with his. I can remember the smell of the Pine tree as the sap oozed out over my mittens, and can hear the chickadees and Blue Jays fighting over a prize in the nearby bush, songs echoing in the bushes nearby. The bareness of the trees bounced sounds from their branches, sending them over to me. I caught all of it with my runny nose, tight-tied scarf, and optimistic eyes. Never before had winter ever been so much fun.
Her father used to call her Snowflake, and when they showed her the bedroom they had created all with snowflakes, I cried, despite my misgivings. Big huge glittering snowflakes hung from every place possible, turning slowly in the shifting air of the new home. It was as if a thousand fourth graders had all folded up bits of something and crafted out a thousand snowflakes, wreaking havoc as they indiscriminantly cut along the fold lines of this little girl’s memory. I wondered if it was a constructive gesture to be constantly reminded of her father, now long gone, as she opened her eyes each morning to the constant artificial blizzard which was her extreme room.
A frenzied snow flurry is a beautiful sight, the fat snowflakes whirling around you, covering everything in a blanket of clean, a coating of white freshness. The sun on a wind-sculpted snow drift is pleasing to the eye, its organic curve not unlike a river-stone shaped by a thousand years of water. A cup of hot coffee feels immensely more satisfying when staring out into the blur through a window, the curl of steam from the mug dancing to match the curl of spritely sparkling snow whipped up by a breeze.