I woke up to
hope. A quick glance out the window was a snapshot of a beautiful landscape, a
painting of fairytale woods, frozen in time. The snow was fresh. It looked like
it was just brimming with possibility, even if the room felt barren. I rushed
to dress, stumbling over shirts and socks and my own limbs. I had never
experienced so much excitement this early in the morning, that was for sure. I
felt like my vision was crowded by white- the bright, clean snow was
crystallizing, frosting over my eyes, filling my mind past capacity with joy.
This had to be worth every Christmas morning I’ve ever lived. She must still be
here. It’s all I needed right then. I just needed five more minutes with her,
then I could fix things for good. Fresh snow, I thought.
As a child, I had
always been thrilled at the prospect of new snow, just like anyone else. Except
for her. In my case, it may have bordering on obsessive, because I still
remembered, crisp and clear, that time in the first grade when we watched a
film on agriculture. I stared at the screen, wide eyed, and wondered why no one
would plant in winter. The most fertile-looking fields were the plain white
ones, the blank slates. When we walked home together, I’d have to grab her arm
to keep her from cutting across the empty page. I was always sure she just
wanted to ruin it. I found comfort in nature’s white washed fences, respected
them. Nothing matched knowing you could cover up something ugly.
She had to be
downstairs. Maybe she was still sleeping, but I knew her. If she wanted to
leave, she’d get up before she needed to. I hit the door like a drowning sailor
hits the lip of a lifeboat. Shoved the door open with too much force. I stopped
for a moment at the edge of the top step. She was still here. We had time. I
needed just five minutes to talk about it, but I could probably walk downstairs
like a normal person would. The windowpane at the landing only showed me white.
Our seventh grade
teacher had told us that the only tools to telling our future were hidden
inside us. In every kid’s brain, there were blueprints to an adult with
troubles and complexes and complex problems we won’t even understand until
we’re older. A habit was never a habit after that day, an interest was never
just an interest. At least, that’s how it was for me. I kept one ear open for
this lecture, even as I opened up a brand new notebook. She ignored the teacher
completely, stretched her arm across our table, like she didn’t even realize
she was doing it. She just reached over and made neat little lines across the
cleanest page in blunt black pen. I almost slipped at the bottom of the
staircase.
Taking two steps
at a time may have been a bit much. The moment my feet touched the ground
floor, I was moving again. There was the couch. Her comforter had been tossed
back over the armrest. It was folded once over. I knew as soon as I saw that.
Something was wrong. But she had to be in the house, right? Fresh snow. I made
my way to the kitchen, stomach dropping lower as I moved. It was empty. The
house was draped in a hush. I whirled around and dashed for the back door,
slamming it on my way out. There it was. The snow that lay at my feet was
ruined with a path of shuffling footsteps, leading my gaze to the messy,
peeling tire tracks she’d left behind. She’d been gone all along. She’d taken
the back door, the long way, leaving me with all this snow, freshly turned over.
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