Innocence and Snowflakes

To her, their apartment was the whole world—a small but cozy place where she felt safe and loved. It was early morning. She heard her sister squeal with joy hearing that schools would be closed today due to the heavy snowfall. In her pink onesie pajamas, she shuffled across the speckled brown-and-gold carpet. It was worn and frayed in places but soft under her little feet. The living room was cramped, the walls filled with photos of a family's happy life. An old sofa was wedged between mismatched end tables and a wooden bookcase overflowing with encyclopedias. The plastic-lined cushions sagged from years of use. A crack and stain on the ceiling traced where water had once leaked. The radiator clanked and hissed, making the windows sweat against the icy city air. She climbed onto the sofa. The plastic cold and squeaky beneath her pj's. Her small white footies barely reached the edge. Their living room was everything— a playroom, a dining room, and, on the coldest nights, a bedroom where they all huddled together when Mom turned on the oven for extra warmth. Her pigtail tickled the back of her neck, but her eyes stayed glued to the TV. A gray rabbit with twitching whiskers dashed across the screen, and a little man with a big nose and chubby legs was chasing after him, gun in hand. Outside, snowflakes swirled around the window, piling in soft heaps on the fire escape. She and her sister would make snowballs today and lie in the snow laughing, making angels. The smell of coffee, fried ham, eggs, and toast wafted from the kitchen. She was looking forward to the delicious frosted sugary oat cereal Mom would be preparing soon. Dad had just walked in from work. His usual booming voice echoing down the hallway. Mom’s quiet hush followed from the kitchen. Everything was perfect. Everything in her little world. . . Until she heard the gunshot— and Dad lay dead on the kitchen floor.