Snow. The word slid into my hands, forming a round ball that melted slowly through my fingers. Snow. I have felt this once before; the hard ice I tried to bite would be dissolving into my mouth. Snow. I remember when my hands would turn red from it. Snow. I could handle it until the dreary drops of rain would fall and combine into slush. But if it slipped out of my fingers, what would be left? There would be nothing to grasp except it would again turn into the dreary drops of water that would make it seem useless to play in the no longer, not frozen snow. n
This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.