I wish it was snowing. December in the south has never been one to routinely bring wintry precipitation, or even bone-chilling temperatures that shake you into realizing that the year you vividly remember the start of is now coming to a time-hurdling close. There’s no guarantee that skies will open up to bless these warm Tennessee fields, but snow has come before, and I always hope that it returns. With the seemingly exponential temperature increase, it’s hard to say that snow will ever come again, but I am a stubborn optimist. I hope.
This seasonal anticipation is one that I acquire each year, never knowing if there will be snow; a sort of spiritual Christmas miracle that clutters my winter dreams. The coming of snow, or lack thereof, represents a mystical reward for a year’s hard work. I wish it was snowing. I deserve it. With the coming of snow comes days off, days in, and days away from the stresses and toils that have only seemed to be increasing with the days of the year. Each snowflake is a token of appreciation from whatever all-controlling presence responsible for causing it.
My most recent memory of snow was a blizzard in Chicago. Two years ago, I remember furious flurries coming down fast like rain, forming powder puddles on sidewalks and roads. The snow weaved itself between the knitted threads of my sweater and the follicles of my hair, even my eyelashes were covered. This recollection of snowy Chicago also calls for the mention of the native Chicagoans I traveled with. The otherworldly, once in a lifetime experience of a true blizzard for me was merely an every-year occurrence for them. To this day, I’m still stunned by the beauty and rarity of the phenomenally natural event that I witnessed, but also shocked by the way in which my local counterparts reacted.
Still, I wish it was snowing. I’m taken back from the Chicago memory, and placed into my reality: fifty-degree winters, sunny and bright, just like they’ve always been, but not like they’re supposed to be. Now, I think, will it ever snow again? Will I ever receive another esoteric confirmation that the lessons I’ve learned and the battles I’ve privately and publicly fought were not completed in vain? Why do I care so much about something so temporary? Snow is here one moment, them melts away the next. It disappears on a fingertip or on a tongue, but the memory it leaves behind is permanent. Each flake, that melts down as the greedy sun rises up, remains permanently frozen in me.
The ending is a necessity. An epilogue to what I sometimes wish was a never-ending story, or a summation of something I’d much rather forget. Through either perspective, there’s no denying the absolute power in a December. I’ve approached the undeniable stop sign followed by a restart; the undoubtable exit of the year, leading to an unpaved road full of changed experiences, new people, and chances to use everything from the previous year to my advantage.
Snow itself, like everything else that has ever physically occurred in life, will soon meet its demise. Time is the villain in snow’s story, the metaphysical menace that will eventually yield its weapon of ruin over the angelic frosted hero that my daydreams consist of. Like the snow, the year itself comes to an end, and manifests itself in a fuzzy conclusion. December. I’m thankful for the brevity of it all, the way that each year presents new opportunities, new missions, as well as a month to reflect upon the year being completed.
Message to Readers
Open to receive any feedback at all!
Memories and wishes of snow
There wasn't anything to grab the readers attention, but I love all the reflection!
Yes, it was perfect
You have a great vocabulary! Also a very nice style. Keep it up😁