The Spirit of the Snow
It started snowing during the night of Thanksgiving and until the next day.
The afternoon sky was a sullen bluish-gray.
The delicate white crystals touched down on top of the smooth skin of my nose.
It kissed my forehead and turn my black hair to the sameness of mama's straight tresses.
I stuck out my tongue and swallowed the very delicate crystals along with the crisp cold air.
My cousin and I were captured by such superior rapture as we admired a wonderous scene that could inspire Norman Rockwell.
It made things the purest white.
It blanketed the rundown barn and our ancient farmhouse.
It weighs down the limbs of our fig trees.
Its beauty covered Uncle Dexter's new Chevrolet, which perpetrated a force of fantasy for us.
I lost my legs and feet in the white crystals' great depth.
It was a glorious day.
A day that was promised to tradition.
Along with papa and mama, my cousins and I packed snugly into papa's old jalopy.
The spirit of the snow chased after us as we glided down hidden roads to the cinema
.Before reaching the town the sky had exchanged its gray hue to onyx.
Descending heavily and slowly from heaven the snowflakes were like white polka dots.
Oh, how spellbinding the effect.
Oh, how it impinged my brain.
copyright January 21, 2017 Looking At The Light From The Bottom Of The Lake. Short Story Penstripe Suit.
Copyright © Mary E.W. Stephenson | Year Posted 2023
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