The Last Snow Day

         

I

sat silently, the weight of years heavy on my chest. My fingers brushed absently over the arm of my chair as I gazed through the one-hundred-year-old windows framing the world.

         Outside, the wooded yard lay blanketed in an icy quilt of fresh snow, its crystalline purity undisturbed. The scene felt an ethereal, timeless stilting that echoed the quiet storm within me. I took a breath and prayed, not for time nor miracles, but for the strength to face the truth whispered to me weeks before in a sterile room with kind, clinical faces. How does one prepare for their last voyage when the shoreline promises no return?

         My den, lined with bookshelves overflowing with stories and sagas of lives long lived and forgotten, bore witness to my turmoil. The smell of paper and leather, aged and worn, mingled with the faint scent of snow seeping through the drafty panes. Here, surrounded by relics of my younger days, I pondered the fading vigor of youth. My once steady hands, which had built success, joy, and a family, now trembled as I lifted a pen to paper—to prepare, to stay busy, but mostly to find solace in duty.

         There was still so much to do. My desk was scattered with estate plans, many titles awaiting transfer, and the delicate balance of ensuring the family would not be burdened by what comes next. But deeper than the floorboards of logistics was the worry that gnawed at my soul. Memories of the past, stories handed down by my grandfather, even softened by my retellings, weighed on me like unspoken promises. Being the last living keeper of these tales felt both a privilege and a burden. Once I am gone, would these voices of my ancestors go silent, lost to the inevitability of time?

         Another question crept into my thoughts. Isn't this how it is supposed to be? Should the next generation remain unburdened by history's echoes, free to create their own? A harsh gust of wind rattled the old panes, sending a branch clawing against the glass. The sound shivered through me. Strangely, such mundane interruptions could split the veil of memory, transporting one to another time and place.
For a moment, the den faded. I was barely a man, standing under the dark green canopy, clutching the arm of my father as we watched my grandfather's casket lower into its grave. Forty-five years ago, this passing new year, the man who had once seemed invincible walked out into his veil of darkness and never returned.

         My concentration faltered with the smell of aged tobacco lingering, twisting, and curling around me like the remnants of my memory. Tears sprang unbidden to my eyes, welling not from the sadness of my mortality but from realization. I' had seen this before. What had been grief as a young man now transformed into the bright, comforting face of legacy.

         "Yes…" I murmured answering a question heard only by me. "I think I did."

         Above the fireplace. Under a thin layer of dust is a portrait of my grandfather. Dark eyes, wise with years, gazed back at me, exuding warmth in their steely depth. I could almost hear him speak and feel the solemn reassurance in those words, unheard but deeply felt.
"No, of course not. How could I forget you, Papa—or Mom, or Dad? The scents of Nana's kitchen still fill my memories with the smell of her bread, cakes, and pies. It's all here."

         But this was not sad. No, this was something entirely different. This was clarity seasoned with the heady warmth of remembrance. And just as my heart warmed with that thought, a snowball exploded against the glass, jolting me from the depths of melancholy.

         I spun toward the window, where silhouettes of youthful faces ducked and darted as laughter spilled freely into the crisp air. Watching them, pure and unburdened, the corners of my mouth lifted. I turned back to the portrait of my grandfather, and for just a moment, I swear his lips too curved into a smile.

         With stiff but willing legs, I stood and softly grazed the edge of the picture frame with my extended fingers. "Okay," I whisper, my voice steadier now.

         Looking out again, my gaze softened as I cogitated. The sound of memories being born was the crisp breath of laughter that crackled from those joyful voices beyond the window. One day, the same would hold for them. These memories mattered most, not the grand tales held sacred in leather journals but the fleeting joy of a snowball fight, the chatter over warm cocoa, and the aching laughter that colored the simplicity of living.

         I smiled, finally at peace with the untamed edges of life's end. For in their laughter, there would be echoes of me in the joy of dragging sleds across snowbanks, in the warmth of a hearth at the day's end, in the quiet, knowing look shared between family as they stood gazing out a frost-kissed window, remembering.

         And when the time came when they looked upon the falling snow, long after I was gone, they would feel what I felt now. Knowing full well that while the journey ends, the love shared along the way lingers, not just in memory but in the life's essence lived.

         With that thought firmly planted, I adjusted my scarf, grabbed the closest coat, and stepped out into the crisp air. Snow crunched beneath my boots as I squared my shoulders against the cold. The children's delighted shouts drew near as I picked up a handful of snow, compacted it into a frozen sphere of laughter, and hurled it toward the unsuspecting figures. The snowball found its mark.

         Laughter erupted, and the game began, carrying a spark of warmth that even the chill of winter couldn't touch. I laughed, joining fully in the moment as I walked across the yard.

         There is no return from this last voyage. But standing tall amid the joy of my family, I know—there was still much life left to give. And this… my final…"Yes, this … The Last Snow Day … shall be perfect!"

Author's note ▼

Word count 1000 without pictures, notes, and formatting Written for the Jan. 12th "The Writer's Cramp" 
NEW PROMPT Due Sunday, January 12, 2025, 11:59 AM Writing.Com Time Please write a story or poem that has the title: "The Last Snow Day" Also, please select "Nature" as one of your genres.