Winter Snowflake

The first time leaving is always the hardest. 

Amy could still remember that night. The night where a shadow man had stood over her, with the cold breeze stinging her skin and the moonlight casting shadows over her face. But he had left. Amy’s father. Leaving nothing but a void of emptiness.

Amy was five at the time. 

The second time, Amy was on the other side of the door. She needed to get away from her mother and the ever-enlarging gap that her father had left behind, but her heartstrings had tugged her back like a marionette—for her emotions chained to her like a puppet. Amy pulled and resisted the temptation to look back; that always made leaving harder. Instead, she looked ahead of her. The moon had never looked so bright in her life, and the light seemingly reached down to caress her face, welcoming her to the first step of departure. 

***

“Almost done?” Nana asked. 

Amy passed the plate of Peking Duck over to her Grandma. The scent of spice powder and soy sauce filled the kitchen along with a sprinkle of nostalgia. The dish had been her favourite comfort food growing up, and there wasn’t a single Lunar New Year where her family had gone without it. She and her cousins would have fights about who could stuff the most filling inside the flour wraps. Fifteen duck pieces was the highest record. 

“Yup, just gonna cook the duck a bit more.” Amy replied, scooping a bit of Beijing sauce over to the meat. 

Nana was watching a Chinese television program over on the living room couch. She usually liked listening to Chinese opera songs, humming along and even sometimes dancing along to them, but she would never sing. 

Amy set the spotless plate onto the table, letting the steam hit her face fogging up her glasses. Everything is like it was before, she told herself. But Amy knew that was a lie. 

Everything had changed, from the way Nana walked to the way she talked to her old friends on the telephone. Before, all they would do was gossip about the latest neighborhood news—who did what—and talk about mahjong. There was always mahjong. 

But now, Nana always seemed lonely. Even within a crowded room full of people at those parties Amy’s family would sometimes attend, she looks still isolated and abandoned. 

Nana had always talked to her about Amy’s grandfather, their stories before and after they immigrated from China to Canada. It was the usual, the story of how they had left their home to start a new life here. The struggles, the language barrier, the discrimination. Amy found it touching, her own parents had never shown such interest in these stories.

Amy’s grandpa had died before she was born. Her family had pictures of him, but even while she looked at them, she couldn’t see any resemblance between herself and him. Sometimes she would imagine what kind of person he was, using her imagination to fill in the empty gaps of their never-happened relationship. But to Nana, he was real. And he had left her as well. 

Amy looked out the window, now the weather was blizzarding. Icicles had formed around the top rim of the window frame—they seemed so fragile and so vulnerable to breaking. Sounds of children’s laughter could be heard from the distance. Amy squeezed her eyes to take a closer look. 

“This snow,” Amy started, “Reminds me of before when we would go to the hill just down that block and you would push me on my sled. After we’re done eating, we should bring the sled out for a run.”

“Mmm…I remember. I always thought the weather was too cold, but you always liked winter sports. Not at all like your father.” 

Nana paused, seeing the discomfort on Amy’s face. 

“Back then, I would bring you up the hill and follow you back down. Soon, you were able to push yourself on the hill, with me supervising you at the top. You left and came back…left and came back…left…”

Nana stayed silent. Amy watched as an icicle fell into the powder snow. 

***

They were on the hill now.

The same hill that Nana had always brought Amy to as a child, holding her raw numbing hands and dragging the sleigh through trails of winter fields. The memories came flooding back to her now. Rather than a stream of consciousness, it seemed to hit her all at once. Amy now found herself at the edge of the hill. 

“Here’s the sled Nana.” She placed it gently in Nana’s wrinkled hand, her words soft like cotton and her copper eyes softening, glistening off the reflection of the snow. 

Nana wrapped her fingers around the rope, and for the first time, Amy could visibly see her grandma’s agedness. Nana’s fingers were like twigs, with lines in the skin and crevices carved in.  Strands of white stuck out of Nana’s originally shiny black hair, glowing like hidden silver.  

Amy took in a deep breath. The winter breeze was cold and sharp, but clear and strangely calming. 

“I’ll push you this time.” She said quietly. 

Nana grinned a little, placing herself on the edge of the sled. Amy had outgrown the sled, but oddly enough, it seemed to fit Nana just fine. Luckily, the hill wasn’t very steep. 

“Hold on tight.”

Amy placed her cold hands on her grandma’s back, with Nana’s warmth bleeding through her jacket. She gave a gentle push. 

Down Nana went, along with Amy’s guilt and regrets. She watched as Nana’s back drew more and more distant until she disappeared into the foggy winds, vanishing into the depths of nowhere. Gone in an instant. 

Snow began to fall harder now, quickly layering and covering over the tracks that Nana’s sled had once left. Amy couldn’t find any trace of Nana now, the hastiness of the snow obstructing her view. 

Amy stood there in the snow, waiting for Nana to come back.