The Day I Longed for Snow

The Day I Longed for Snow by Ciara McGuinness

In the dimly lit room, shadows dance on the walls as the solitary flame flickers against the canvas of my hand. Everything fades except for the radiating heat as the orange blaze inches closer and closer until - ouch, reality stings. I hastily wave my hand to dismiss the fire. If only it were that easy to extinguish every burning sensation.  

Undeterred, I open the matchbox again, another match ignited until the flames connect with my delicate skin. Why can’t I do this? Perhaps it’s the familiar satisfaction from feeding the physical pain and to dull the emotional torment.

My frustration lingers in the air as I gaze at the innocent white tea light, a symbol of peace and purity. The irony was palpable, a cruel position that mocked my attempts at finding solace in the simple act of kindling a flame.

Religion never held much significance in my life, but they say to light a candle in remembrance of those we have lost, to help us move forward. Possibly to illuminate our darkest thoughts. Yet six years later, I’m stuck here in the memory of you, a relentless playback in my mind like you are still here, haunting me.

Specifically the day I longed for snow…

The memory unfolded like a tragic play, the protagonists being me and you, Mick, the only family I’ve ever known. In those days, home was a transient concept for me, bouncing from one place to another. The only constant was you, a man who oscillated between few moments of warmth in the midst of all your dark actions.

I remember the bags of white flour that cluttered our living space. The ritualistic metallic clinks of the scales to measure the flour resonated in my mind like a sinister lullaby. Above all, the unsettling memories of ominous men visiting in the dead of night remained etched in my consciousness, their figures shrouded in darkness. In my heart, I knew this was abnormal, but it was the only version of fatherhood I had ever known, and I clung to it.

At times, you would indulge in some of the flour, finding a peculiar joy in its consumption. In those moments of your satisfaction, a strange tranquillity would wash over me, as if your fleeting happiness provided a brief escape from the chaotic reality we lived in. I remember you disappearing for days at a time making food a luxury. The pangs of hunger becoming a familiar companion in the absence of you. School was never a part of my life, rendering me invisible to a system that never recognized my existence beyond the age of six. At ten, I grappled with a reality that denied me the opportunity to learn and grow like other children my age.

Playtime was a rarity, my imagination becoming the sole sanctuary in a world constrained by your harsh circumstances. You imposed the task of counting grams of flour on the scale and packing them into bags. In my imaginative reverie, each bag I crafted transformed into fairy dust, a mystical substance delivered to tooth fairies to render them small and inconspicuous. In this fanciful realm, my mind sought refuge from the starkness of my everyday existence.

The memory came into focus as I thought of the day I longed for snow. The concept of Christmas did not appeal to me, specifically the idea of Santa, a bearded man coming into your house at night, it was all too real. Despite my reservations, I yearned for snow, for the magic of real-life snowflakes and building a snowman without measuring anything.

“I hope Santa will at least brings back the magical white flakes from the North Pole.” My father, distracted by his own desires, only half-listened to my innocent chatter.

"Daddy, you're not listening," I pleaded, eyes wide with anticipation.

"I hear ya Lil, now pass me that bag of snow," he replied absentmindedly.

I liked it when you called me Lil, it made me feel special. Lilies, my mother’s favourite flowers, became a cherished connection that I managed to extract from you during one of your better moments.

I pretended I was Rapunzel and you stole me to help you count out grams of flour, but my real mammy and daddy are out there searching for me. That’s why we had to move all the time so you could keep – “The bag, Lil!”

"That's not snow, it's flour," I corrected, a pang of disappointment washing over me as my fantasy was interrupted. That was a fraction of the disappointment that awaited me.

Details should be so vague now that six years have passed, yet it remains all too vivid in my mind. Clad in my baby pink jumper, its vibrance dulled by dust, paired with my worn grey tracksuit bottoms. Seated at the countertop, toying with my tangled auburn hair- a silent observer to your meticulous weighing of flour. You emphasised its expense with unwavering precision, a detail etched into my memory. I remember your slender figure, the smallest tracksuit hanging loosely on your fragile frame. Your sunken eyes, now widened with a touch of joy, their green hue leaving an impression despite the passage of time.

As you assembled your third bag of flour, I contemplated whether I'd ever witness snowfall in my lifetime. The serenity of the moment shattered when the police stormed through the door of our apartment, marked with the number ‘17’. The recollection of you being pinned to the ground is out of focus as it was seen through my tear-filled eyes. I sobbed as one of the policeman uttered “it’s alright, we’ve got him now”.

This marked the inception of a life spent in foster homes, forbidden to see you in prison, no matter how much I begged. Instead surrounded by a foreign word, ubiquitous yet unfamiliar, loomed over me – ‘cocaine’. While the term 'father,' was conversely a word I had heard constantly but never truly experienced. Eventually, I grasped the concept of a normal childhood and the abuse I endured. Consequently, I did not wish to see you anymore as the truth came in to focus.

As my mind completes its relentless replay of my stolen childhood, a solitary tear traces a path down my rounded cheeks. At sixteen, residing in a permanent foster home for the past three years, I find myself still ensnared in that enduring moment within apartment 17. I begin to argue with my own mind to try find some redemption in you. Did you sacrifice your life to try give me a better one, or did you sacrifice me to fulfil your deepest desires? They say time is forever fleeting but your impact on me has defeated the concept of time. So I replay the moment you got taken away from me because still, I feel like I lost you, not survived you.

A year later, I received a call from the prison you were taken too. You got into a fight with your cellmate and you were beaten to death. The woman on the other end of the line explained that despite the foster homes altering my last name, they had tracked me down because you had written letters to me during your time of imprisonment. "Would you like to come down and collect the letters, Ms. Minster, -sorry I mean Ms. Hodge," she inquired. A tumultuous mix of guilt and relief washed over me. "I’ll come by tomorrow to get them," I anxiously responded, still uncertain about whether I would choose to read or burn the remnants of your words.

Sleep remained elusive that night, as my mind incessantly replayed the unforgettable and unforgivable moments within the confinement of apartment 17. The next morning, when handed the letters, curiosity overwhelmed me, and I blurted out to the woman delivering them, "How did he die?"

“Oh apologies, I thought you knew, he got into a fight and-”.

“No I know that, I mean he had been in prison for seven years, why now?” I interrupted.

“Well, surveillance showed, your father and his inmate getting into a heated argument and the inmate ripped up one of your father’s letters, it all went south from there”. She stated with sorrow.

If these tangible letters were worth sacrificing your life, I feel compelled to read them. Burning them, I realised, would make me no better than you. As I delved into the letters, they unfolded not as an apology but as an explanation, revealing the complexities and struggles that had shaped your troubled journey. I started to choke up reading a specific paragraph.

"I never regretted you, Lil. You were the best thing to ever happen to me. I can't begin to explain the pain I feel not being able to see you. I wish I were a better father. Being in here, forced to stay clean, I realise maybe these letters could be the most effective father I can be. In my disaster of raising you, I hope I taught you to never accept the kind of 'love' I gave you. I truly loved you, Lil, but you never deserved that. I hope you feel deep within you that just because your old man was unfixable, you were never broken."

As tears streamed down my face, the realisation dawned that you had been a victim of your own weaknesses, trapped in a cycle that you were unable to break. The weight of anger began to lift, making room for forgiveness. I realised that your actions had not been a deliberate act of selfishness, but rather the tragic consequence of a life ensnared by addiction.

I felt the shackles of the past loosening their grip. The memory that had held me captive for so long began to fade, replaced by a newfound freedom to live without the burden of resentment. Every day that passed I mourned you, I mourned for the little girl who lost the one person she trusted in life before that day she wished for snow. They say time heals all but your grasp is so strong. It’s not time that heals all, but forgiveness. Memories are easier to release than they are to hold, but part of me did not want to let go of you just yet.

In the quiet moments of reflection, I allowed myself to mourn not only the loss of my father but also the loss of the man you could have been. That night, I open my drawer. I take out the white dusty tea light and the yellow match box. Can you even consider somebody your father when you have no recollection of exchanging the words “I love you”? I open the match box, slide it across swiftly to ignite the flame. I whisper, “I forgive you”. It is only as I’m reaching towards the wick, from the glimmer of my eye, I see the white snow hit against the window, and thus, I feel like time has started to move again.