Snow

The snow has started again. It still won’t stick. The threat of a thick cover disintegrating as each flake
touches the wet ground.

There is a sadness to snow that doesn’t lie. A potential for a new life that is melted by what has
come before it. It is so reliant on everything around it for it to work.

It cannot be too cold, or too hot. It cannot be too wet, or too dry. The land must be ready to
welcome it. It must be open, to say “Here, lay down a while and show them your beauty.” It must
not, as it is today, be too sodden and hostile, changing the flakes to miniature puddles in an instant.

It is delicate and light, never on a straight path down. Rain falls with a purpose, a knowingness. Snow
dances through the air, at the mercy of the softest breeze knocking it off course. It is a precarious
journey. You will learn these things.

The flurry has intensified, and I open the window, put my hand out to catch just one beautiful flake.
They all elude me. I watch my hand as it pales with the kisses of the cold, then darkens as it bites. It
stings with a sharpness only this weather can bring.

I begin to draw it back into the warmth and a snowflake lands, holding its shape for the smallest of
seconds and I dare not breathe or blink as I look at this little miracle.

You stir as I close the window. My own snowstorm, with all your potential and newness. I wipe the
tiny drop from my fingertip.

You will go out into the world and be at its mercy. Your path is yet unknown, your journey still
entwined with mine. There is a sadness to this – that you will not always be only for me. But I will let
you go and watch you flourish and watch you struggle. And I will be here, with my hand outstretched
for you, always.

Tomorrow when we rise there will be a fine white dusting on the ground. The world will be changed.
But for now, I lay you down a while, and marvel at your beauty.

By Hazel O’Rourke