snowfall

On a wintry hike in Sooke, BC in December 2021

As each snowflake lands ever so gently on my face, I feel a rush of joy because this sensation is so new, and so welcome, despite the biting cold and the unforgiving wind that rushes toward me as I trudge on. The snowflakes drift and sway and come to rest on my dark blue winter jacket, my purple scarf, my glasses, my pink-tipped nose. Every single one is unique, I know, and I feel a twinge of regret as I brush them off.

I gravitate towards fluffy banks of snow when I walk along streets, shuffling my feet and kicking the powdery stuff every so often so that snow is briefly suspended in mid-air. I like seeing the air shimmer, if only for a millisecond.

I look at the deep pockets in the snow that my winter boots have left behind me. I consider the other shoe prints that mine are inevitably mixed with and covered by. People usually walk on paths others have trodden on before. Rare is the line that veers off.

I recall reading about how snow “blankets” a landscape, but I’ve never really known what that feels like. Now I know that that is an apt description. This snow that comes from on high and melts away almost unnoticed leaves a frosty dusting on anything and everything. It is pretty, glacially pretty. My fingers yearn to touch it.

And I do, eventually, when I initiate a spontaneous snowball fight with the husband when visiting the Sooke potholes. I scoop up handfuls of snow, the sharp cold surprising me and seeping through my gloved hands. I can’t shape them into snowballs very well, so mine are better termed snow-clumps, really. I lob them over anyway and mostly miss my intended target.

Then I get caught by a snowball that lands, with a soft sploof, around my neck. It’s so cold, I shriek, as the ice crystals come into contact with my skin and—merrily, I think—trickle down my nape.

Snow is falling again soon, the weather forecasts say. I turn towards the window, straining to see against the dark.

xx,
iz