Memories of Snowflakes

I was six, and it was the first time I had ever seen snow. I laughed and ate it and made snow angels—angels for you, because you collected them. Our power was out for a week, but I barely noticed—because this was a magical place: a place full of love, and laughter, and endless white.



I was nine, and it was my first winter without a Santa Claus. But for the younger cousins, I pretended. I made cookies with you, and left them out; they were gone in the morning. The little ones screamed and laughed over the miracle, and we just smiled: we were happy with our secret, their magic.



I was ten, and I was at your house for the holidays. All of my cousins were there too, and my aunts and uncles; the house was full to bursting. We all got ready for bed on Christmas Eve, and when I looked outside, snow was falling. We woke up, and the world was covered—my first White Christmas. Everyone piled outside, and we ran through the powder, smacking each other with well-packed snow. I laughed and helped to make three beautiful snowmen; by the time they were done, I couldn’t feel my fingers. I put my scarf around the smallest one, to keep it warm. You smiled as I trudged in, and made me hot cocoa—you warmed me to the core.



I was twelve, and we were opening presents on Christmas morning. We were all crammed into your living room, and the fire was burning; the people on the hearth joked about roasting buns. We opened presents youngest to oldest, the way we always have. I was in the middle, and for my gift, you gave me a signed copy of my favorite book—but it was the second in the series. I laughed because I didn’t care and because this might be the Best Christmas Ever.

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I’m 15 now, and I think that this is the first winter I’ve ever been sad. Mom cries and says we should visit you, say we love you. There might not be another winter. I wonder about winters without you; I wonder if where you’ll be, the winter is always filled with snow.