Snow

Snow

Today, it snowed for the first time this winter.
I wore thick black gloves.
I never used to. Snowballs broke apart in my hands because the snow stuck to my gloves.
I abandoned them. Bare hands.

‘Aren’t your hands freezing?’ my friends asked, choking on my last throw.
‘Not really’ I replied, circling off a perfect sphere of white.

Today though, my hands were cold.

When I was young, younger, snow was whole. I swear it never turned to slushy mush. It crunched.
Now it creaks like the middle step of an old staircase at midnight.
Snow wasn’t cold either, not really.

Today, the snow was grey.

I used to look up at the sky when it snowed, stared up until my neck ached.
Today, I tried it and my eyes squinted and watered. I put my hood up.

Snow was a reason to go outside. Today, it was a reason to walk home faster.
Snow was dry when I was young, younger.
Wet now, like a dandruff shower.

I’m too old for snow.

But, when I was near home I saw a perfect patch of virgin white.
I took my gloves off and jammed them in my coat pocket.
I gathered a handful of snow and shaped it like I remembered.

There was a post box some twenty yards away, clean red save for its white hair.
I threw the snowball and THUD!
A splatter of white on the red column.
I kept my gloves in my pocket the rest of the way home.

My hands weren’t cold.