Snow in the Morning, and then in the Afternoon, Evening and Night, and then All Week Long

Snow in the morning is a most curious affair. One sleeps well and wakes the next day just as they did the day before, but after yawning, rising, stretching, and drawing the curtains, one finds a world drastically different than the one in which they slept so peacefully the night before. 

This experience is much the same in the country and the city, as trees and barns tend to blanket themselves in the pure stuff just as easily as skyscrapers do, and the steady sound of flakes upon the roof is just as soft in the cottage as in the townhouse.

All this being the case, one’s discovery of such a scene should inspire nothing but smiles, and the coldest heart could only be expected to thaw at least to a slightly warmer degree. And yet, there will always be those who seem to go to parties only to feel alone, to eat only to complain about the taste of the food, and of course, to sleep only to wake up upset.

Expect nothing except that Jamie Foster was one of those types. Not just that, but she outshined them all: she seemed to live and breathe only to say that life was dreary and the very air was dull. In fact, the fresher the air, the duller she felt it waws. So when a slight draft woke her in her small room on the second floor of the small Foster cottage, and she had yawned, risen, stretched, and drawn, she did not excitedly fling the window open to let the cold dance upon her cheek, but shut it again with more force than a blizzard.

She felt wronged, for the night had crept in black and silky, and here was a white blanket to oppress it all, a fiend upon the fields, an enemy to the very state of things. She might have reacted just the same to an earthquake or a flood, for all seemed equal in disturbance to her. Snow did not mean peace, nor quiet, but instead no walk in the afternoon, no sun, and therefore no heat, and if the weather was not above 70 degrees, why ever should she feel compelled to be?

Suffice it to the say that that frail morning was spent in bed, her even frailer figure blanketed in shrouds and her slack face buried in the graveyard of her pillow. She dozed off and woke again; and though this happened many times, she did not dare remove herself from the night before, for every time she opened her eyes she only saw what she so dreaded again, and snapped them shut once more.

But sunrise could n0t be called sunset forever, and accordingly, a terribly scratchy voice was heard within an hour of her discovery.

“Jamie, darling, what keeps you in bed? Do get up.”

“Oh mother, do not taunt me so; see for yourself outside, and do not ask me that again!”

This she did, and with great joy, for Jamie was a curious daughter, the type who strays as far as possible from her parents’ dispositions. When Mrs. Foster was needed, the first place her family checked was the quaint little chair by the window in the kitchen. She loved the outdoors and needed only glance outside to be affected for the good, much the same as her daughter, though the latter was always affected for the worse.

Therefore, when Mrs. Foster gracefully spread the linen away from the glass, she saw no reason for Jamie to fret. She checked for thieves, for enemies from school, for daunting beasts perhaps lurking in the streets, even, but the small town had succumbed all around to the sweet freshness of its new white coat, and there was not a soul that morning that could bring itself to disturb that peace.

Not a soul, that is, except for one, and here she lay in bed, much to her mother’s dismay. But just as her eyes began to close, her pupils begging to stay in the comfort of her eyelids, her dreams once again rendering and continuing their paused plots, she was blasted with a chill. Her peace torn from end to end, she jumped up in bed and realized she was the victim of theft; Mrs. Foster the perpetrator and her blankets the stolen items. 

“Darling, I’m sorry, but days are to be had, not slept through, and if I must tear away your blankets every day for the rest of my life just to teach you that, I will. There is no excuse for laziness, snow or not!”

But this was worse than snow, for that could be avoided with proper protection, but now her mother had stripped her defenseless and left her vulnerable to all sorts of dangers, namely, the weather. Revenge, no, justice, was to be had, and there occurred a quick flurry of the enraged girl’s arms and legs as she stumbled to her feet. Try as she might, however, Jamie could produce no violent act, and instead opted for a guttural scream of the horrifying variety.

“I cannot, I will not, I will not suffer here any longer! Today is to be slept through, to be seized and put to rest, to be denied, to be told that it is powerless. You are wrong, mother, and you will not be correct if you tear a thousand more blankets away!”

At this, the morning’s tranquility ended abruptly. Mother and daughter stood at odds, neither able to decide a good course of action. They were helped from this by a shattering noise from the living room, a cracking that sounded louder and more ravenous than Jamie’s speech.

“It is the china! Look what you have caused, Jamie! Now dress and be downstairs this instant!” And off she went to see what was the matter. By now Jamie’s restless spirit had calmed a bit, and the space left behind by her vanished pride was filled with regret and guilt. She grudgingly let all her drowsiness leave her, and soon enough she was at the dresser rummaging for clothes.

She wore light things, lighter than her own fragile frame, lighter than she might wear even in summertime, hoping her intention to stay inside would be understood without a word, for even speech seemed a task today. Nonetheless, she dressed and checked the mirror quickly to make sure she was presentable. That is, presentable to an extent, as today was not one for making good impressions. 

Out her door she went, and into the hall. One, two, three rooms, one to the left, one to the right, and left again. One foot before the other at first, slow and still, but as her stiffness wore off she felt the need to skip. She hated that desire, hated that one square inch of her should like to jump for any type of joy, and yet, she could not help herself. There she was on the staircase, and so quickly did she make it to the last step that she was out of breath.

A crossroads: here, where the bottom stair turned to the living room, only her mother knew her mood, and she still had the chance to change it completely before she moved along. But as much as her guilt still lingered from before, it was overpowered by how upset she was by her sudden need to skip like a giddy schoolgirl. She wanted anger and found it frustrating that it had slipped so easily from her tongue just a couple minutes earlier and now hid itself away.

So she faked it and burst forth from stair to corner to living room, fuming all the way, though her complexion failed to redden as she had hoped it would. The first thing she saw was two familiar men playing chess on a low table, her father sitting seriously with his chin resting on his hand and his eyes surveying the board, while her brother Arthur prostrated himself on the couch beside the table, with his feet up, a mango pit in his mouth, and his eyes anywhere but the board as he awaited his father’s next move.

And where was their grief? Why did they lounge so well when the day had ruined itself to their faces? Here was her second justice, and just as Mr. Foster grunted and made his move, Arthur’s face brimming with relief, the kings and queens flew about as Jamie flipped the board.

Now she achieved what she desired, for both were furious, and Arthur was the first to voice their sentiments.

“Jamie, why? I’ve been waiting for my turn for over an hour, and now you come along and throw our game? How dare you, you vile girl! Shame!”

Fortunately, Mr. Foster saw no need to add insult to injury, as Arthur had said enough, so he just frowned and sighed with heavy sadness, and thought privately just how much his children were aging him.

But spite was not enough for Jamie anymore, though it was all she had desired before. She felt wretched yet again, and now she explained herself.

“Misunderstood! That’s what I am, and will be until I am eighteen and become capable of leaving this wretched town and moving to London! I must be adopted, for what family has all the same characters but one who differs from them so greatly! Tell me, father, am I even a Foster!”

Clearly, things had regressed past the weather, so all quietly sunk into seats, her father still in his old rocking chair, Arthur not lying but sitting on the couch, and Jamie on the floor right where she had just stood so proudly. There they all stayed sulking for a great many minutes.

She was nearly streaming tears when a different stream poured in, as the door cracked open and a head popped in, and a voice boomed, “good morning, Fosters, have you seen the snow outside? You simply must.” The sound was followed by bodies, many of them, as almost the whole neighborhood piled in, coming and coming until the whole room seemed packed. 

And then, of course, Mrs. Foster came out, finally done with the china, which the maid had dropped out of shock when she heard Jamie scream. Her presence helped everyone mill about, and within a minute or two the scene was thriving again. Whole families had come, for the small-town tradition was to come there whenever the snow fell like this. Mrs. Foster loved the snow so much that when it came, the only thing she wanted was even more company to enjoy it with her.

Out came the pies and cakes, and all hearts present flared up against the cold at this, for they were absolutely legendary for miles around. One bite and even poor Jamie couldn’t help but glow, and say “mmm....hmm...mmm!” for words were never expressive enough for these, if even mouths were free at all from eating.

And when she had swallowed, she smiled, seeing so many people around her, enjoying themselves, and she forgot all about the snow as she laughed and giggled with her friends. No, she did not age two years in that time, but she felt freer than if she had turned eighteen and packed herself up and went to London.

Apologies were made to Jamie’s parents and Arthur, and it was mutually decided upon that she had many more mornings to redeem this one and that chess could be started up and played even better once they found all the pieces.

Hours later, when lunchtime came, family by family drifted out, and by the time that meal was served only the Fosters and their very closest friends remained. As they ate, Jamie was drawn fiercely to the kitchen window her mother so loved to sit by, and found herself in the chair, examining the outdoors against her will.

She loved it, she really did, she only could, for here was not a fiend, but a friend, not an enemy to order, but an ally for gathering together.

She let herself wander out for a long while, finding everything she could: here were the cottages, smoke rising from chimneys, which meant warmth for the children in every home. Here were the trees, naked now, but readying themselves to bear fruit in spring. Here was the countryside in all its proper splendor, acre after acre rolling with laughter from one hill to the next, climbing from mountain to mountain, visiting everything it came upon and bidding it a good day. 

And upon it all was snow; snow on the cottages, perfectly aligned with every slanted rooftop, snow on the trees, covering them until they could dress with leaves, snow everywhere it could fall and more. She opened the window and caught a flake with her hand, allowing it to melt against her skin and teach her warmth.

Warmth, that was the word that day, as Jamie walked outside, still in her summer attire, not in need of hat or gloves or coat, marvelously thin and pale as she was, for the snow covered her more than well enough.

` Snow in the morning is a most curious affair, but snow in the afternoon, evening, and all night long is even more so, and snow for a week straight was the first such occurrence any cottager from them had seen or would see for a long time again. The clouds did their duty every day, all day, for they had learned, as all do, that warmth can be found, regardless of time, place, or person, and where it is spotted it must be pursued, must be nurtured and cherished, and loved, and told that yes, it is powerful, and asked to stay until it very much insists on leaving, and even then must be mourned for as it slowly spreads itself away.