Snowfall

There’s a tradition in this town, to wait for winter. And in the waiting lies stillness and a moment captured with crystal clarity.

Waiting for the first kiss of snow to tumble down over the mountains was strange. It was as though the whole town held its breath, caught in the moment between the last orange brown leaf hitting the ground and the first fat white flake floating down from the leaden sky. Everything seemed paused, held in stasis. A breath indrawn that might, it felt, never release.

The main street was empty, but through the window of the corner store you could see red faces peeking out through the lace curtains, chill turning their noses and cheeks the same colour as the ‘Closed’ sign hung on the front door. Abner, the grizzled old butcher’s dog who always barked when people walked by, or just at nothing if it seemed too quiet, lay on his pillow and stared unblinking up at the sky. Somewhere, a late songbird trilled its final melody before exploding into the sky in a clatter of feathers and vanishing below the horizon.

Cold wormed its icy fingers between buildings and under windowpanes, drew lengthy icicles from rafters and sent rime spiderwebbing over the tops of water barrels. Inside houses, fires crackled and spat merrily, casting orange glows over faces and furniture and making the shadows dance. The smoke, thick, grey and pungent, billowed from chimneys and was swallowed by the clouds.

Bare toes curled into carpets, legs tucked underneath blankets, the smell of cardamom and cinnamon spilling into the air from spiced milk warmed by the fireside, we waited. Overhead, the clouds hung heavy and grey, thick with promise that was yet to fall.