Snowfall
Written January 23, 2026 ~ 1431 words ~ CW: Parental death, grief
Have you ever watched the sky as the clouds roll over the world like a gentle blanket? Been there the moment the rain that’s been softly drizzling turns into a cascade of white powder, and a certain quietude settles into the air? Bare tree branches still, waves on a lake shore that pounded before seem to whimper like puppies? I remember the day I finally stopped and took notice of it.
It was a Wednesday, early in the morning, and I was out for a walk, stretching my legs after sleeping curled up tightly on my couch. I’d fallen asleep binging some medical drama on Netflix, one of the nameless many that lacked the social commentary of Scrubs and the drama of Grey’s Anatomy, and desperately needed to work the kinks out of my system. I’d put just a coat on over my sleepwear—a tank top that barely covered my breasts and leggings that stretched across my calves and thighs—at first, some light thing of thin material, walked outside, been blasted by the chilly air, and turned right around to put on something else.
I pulled on a pair of jeans, an oversized cream-colored sweater, my purple knit hat and matching gloves, and then the big black winter coat that Mom had insisted on buying for me even though I live in a subtropical climate (Virginia) and rarely, if ever, need something so ridiculous. Thank you, Mom, for being an evergreen worrier. You’re saving my life today.
Finally, I left the house and meandered the sidewalks of the neighborhood. I hated this place. House after house was the same. White vinyl siding, a small covered porch with faux stone on its steepled overhang, and front doors with oval-shaped glass. Plus ugly garages at the end of long driveways, and grass cut short like a golf course. One house, towards the entrance to the woods I was seeking, had a child’s plastic tricycle, bits of party favors, and a little Barbie strewn about its yard. Anything that broke the monotony of the mundane was appreciated.
The trail that wound into the trees here started as a bit of spilled-out blacktop that shifted to gray, industrial gravel about fifty or sixty yards in. My feet crunched along, pressing red and orange leaves into the ground and kicking gumballs off to the side. A large branch had fallen from a tree, and I shoved it off to the side, my slight frame straining against the massive thing. It felt good to be active, productive, and doing something for someone who would never know their benefactor.
Mom would approve. Mom would help me. Mom would be here, on this walk with me. She’d have been up before me, coffee ready, and insisted we do this, especially after finding me curled up on the couch. Mom would ask me about what I saw as we walked. She always wanted details. She explained to me one time, around the time I was twelve or thirteen, that if more people took the time to notice the details, then the world might be a little better. I had no idea what that meant.
She always had a little aphorism for something, such as when she told me that “someone’s biggest problem is the problem they’re facing now,” when somebody cussed her out for bumping into them. I thought she was being generous, but the man had blinked when Mom apologized and offered to buy him a cup of coffee. He broke down, explained he’d just been fired, and was stressed. Mom was a superhero.
Tears stung my cheeks when that memory hit me. I was by the lake now, at a point where the gravel and the sandy shore meet and intertwine. A bench stood a lonely vigil, inviting me to sit. I did. It was cold against my backside, and I shivered as I settled. The air had that particular quality that always reminds me of the ghost of fire, and the waves seemed to clap against a barrier of rocks a bit further down. This was her favorite place. “Raven’s Roost,” she called it, referencing a promontory she’d grown fond of when we’d stopped at on a family trip in Virginia. It was a place of giant boulders and brave trees that looked out over the Shenandoah Valley atop a cascading mountain of forest.
I sat on that bench, cold, shivering, and I let go. It had been a month since we buried her. A month of waking up to a house that felt too large and too small, to days that seemed to rush by and then drag impossibly slow. Dad seemed to move in a daze most days, forgetting how to make coffee one day or toast a bagel the next. Food tasted bland even when I accidentally poured an entire bottle of sriracha into the pho we ordered one night. I choked down a sob. Pho was one of her favorites.
I don’t know how long I sat there. The drizzle came eventually. Normally, I’d race back to the house, fearful of a cold. I let it cover me. I let it soak me. I noticed the moment the patter of drops on leaves slowly eased into the soft tap of snow. The world around me seemed to hush as the little frozen crystals muffled the air against sound. The waves that had been slapping against rocks began to lick them instead. I’d never been there for something like that. It was... wondrous.
Mom would have loved this. That staunched the flow of tears. I smiled a little lopsidedly, watching my breath dance in the air alongside snowflakes. She would have insisted we sit until we felt frozen, and then we’d have to walk back, legs stiff but hearts content. She’d ask me a dozen questions about sensations, and I would answer the best I could. She always pressed for more details. When she’d first started these little interrogations, I’d feel like I’d never speak again, but then slowly I kept sharing more of what I’d noticed.
She kept it up on our annual mother-daughter trips around the world. In Greece, she pressed me to explain the exact shade of blue I saw in the water. Arizona was not about identifying the vegetation I saw so much as telling her about what it looked like to me, how it made me feel. Every place was explored and discussed, dissected like art students, and thought over like engineers
The conceit of these trips was that we were born on the same day, 28 years apart, and she wanted to celebrate that. Dad was bemused at first, probably because Mom insisted that for my first birthday, we do it. He went along, and she had an album of us all across Paris (we went back when I was ten, so I could actually experience it). It became our thing quickly, and Dad grew enthusiastic about it. Two weeks, no girls, for him. Mom once told me, when I was fifteen, that he totally had a sidepiece when we were gone. I was mortified then, and I was mortified now.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. Snow drifted off me as I pulled it out, reading the notification. The airline app was reminding me of my flight in two days. Oh. We’d never cancelled the flight or the hotel. Spain was calling. Mom couldn’t answer. I could. Did I want to?
I sat in the snow a little longer, tears having returned. Dad called. Asked if I’d be home soon since he was cooking dinner. Had that much time really passed? I looked at the time on my phone.
“15:15.”
Military time, for efficiency. Mom had insisted. She told me it made more sense. I didn’t believe her until I woke up one day and called my boss, over-apologizing for being late. He sounded drunk when he told me it was “2 o’clock in the damn morning,” and to leave him alone. Mom (and Dad) ribbed me about it constantly. I switched to military time the moment my boss hung up.
Dad pressed me on when I was coming home. I sighed. He apologized.
I told him, “Soon,” and explained about Spain.
He sighed. I apologized. He said we’d talk about it when I got home. He was making beef stew and said something about it being good for snowy weather.
I said, “Sure, Dad. That sounds good. I love you.” I hung up, and I let the snow fall blanket me for another hour.