Random Vingettes of Snow

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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