43 The Snow on 146th Ln NW by Adelyn Olson Snow falls heavy in Minnesota. Great blankets shudder over skeletons and snuggle into witches’ cauldrons as Halloween turns into winter. It slips in at midnight, falls to the rhythm of school bells, and marks the start of Christmas. It’s always cold here, but it doesn’t matter; I’ll still let the snowflakes sting my tongue and fingertips. I step outside our holly-red door, tiptoeing in three inches of snow. My hand sinks into the yard. I don’t find grass or the bricks surrounding our maple. But I do find the soft ache of wintertime, burning my hands red. Lifting them out, I study the flakes melting on my palm. Each is different, delicate, and disappearing. I’ve always been told each snowflake is unique, fashioned distinctly by God’s gentle fingers. I imagine their formation, water droplets freezing as they drift past clouds and stars. I always pictured snowflakes falling down readymade, perfect dendrites fanning out in six frosty branches. How chaotic must it be, the collision of water and windblown particles, gradually becoming heavier and heavier and heavier, the uncertainty of not knowing where they’ll land, of hitting concrete or tree or flake…
RkJQdWJsaXNoZXIy MTM4ODY=