Snowfall

Silvia stands at her bedroom window, peering through the blinds. She is mesmerised by the falling snow, silently enveloping the world as it slept. 

The light dusting on the bare branches of the trees in the park opposite reminds her of icing sugar on the sweets of her childhood - the crostini and the cruciddati. Traditional sweets, made in the home, by her mother, and later by herself. When she was a child, no one would have ever dreamt of buying these kind of sweets from a shop. Nowadays you could find them in some cafes - the Bar Gattopardo sells them alongside the cannoli, and there is also a shop on the main thoroughfare of the city, specialising in traditional sweets, made on demand. Life changes all the time, and it sure has changed in the seventy-odd years she can remember.

The snow is still falling, silently still, but more thickly now. It looks so beautiful drifting down noiselessly. Just like feathers falling from the sky in moult season. 

Silvia sighs; her back is protesting - she’s had quite a busy day today, and she knows tomorrow will be the same. But the preserving has to be done. She is a child of her times after all, and she can not see the fruit go to waste, even if all the harvest was just the fruit of the six trees they have - she has - in the garden. 

It is cold standing by the window; she can feel her feet begin to go numb. The duvet beckons, warm and inviting. But snow isn’t an everyday occurrence here, not anymore. When Silvia was a little girl, they had snow every winter regularly, from before Christmas, right up to late February. 

Silvia pulls George’s old wingback chair over to the window and opens the blinds. She tugs the throw spread on the end of the bed to keep her feet warm. She sinks gratefully into the chair, tucking the woollen throw around her. 

The snowfall has changed direction, but is still coming down. She has always marvelled at how it could all look so flimsy, so insubstantial, and yet with enough of it, it could still submerge cars, driveways, hedges under a thick blanket. She remembers one time, years ago - she was still a child - it had snowed so much overnight that they had found six inches of snow on their stoop and on their windowsills. Silvia remembers her father having to push hard against the front door which had been jammed into place by the snow. There was snow in the streets, and oh, they had had such fun, building snowmen, having snowball fights. The older boys, more daredevil, would lie in wait in doorways, and pelt unsuspecting strangers with a snowball, only to disappear inside the portoni - the big front doors on most buildings - which were almost always left unlocked then. It was a different age. Today nobody in their right mind would dream of leaving unlocked front doors. Most buildings even have security personnel to ensure the residents’ safety. 

Silvia smiles, remembering more details. It had snowed for several days, always in the gap between sundown and sunrise. And since the sun didn’t reach down into the narrow streets, it did little to melt the snow during the day. So, after ten days of snow, there were drifts about eighteen inches high at the side of the streets. For years, it had been a record-holding snowfall - la grande nevicata. 

School had closed because the children who lived out in the countryside suburbs of the city were completely snowed in. The seaside town’s eighteen-inch drifts were child’s play compared to what had fallen out in the campagne, apparently. There was no fruit or veg to be bought from Giacomo at the corner shop. His fields were buried in three or four feet of snow, making it impossible to dig up produce. Chemists had stayed open, as had Signor Andrea’s bookshop, but most other shops were closed, unable to open their doors properly. 

It was a bit like this past year with Covid lockdown. Only then the record snowfall had seemed far less sinister or deadly than Covid does now. 

Silvia shudders and wraps the blanket more tightly around her. As much as she misses George, and God knows she misses him terribly, she is glad he is not here, to have to deal with this madness. It is so incredibly difficult to have to adjust to all these new rules. She isn’t too fussed about dying per se. As far as she is concerned, she has lived a long and full life, and she’s always believed that even with all your family around, ultimately you still die alone. Being at George’s side when he passed had only confirmed that belief. But from what she has heard a Covid death is pretty awful, and that scares her. 

Her sons tell her to be careful. Ideally, they would want her indoors all the time. But that would be too much to bear. She cannot meet friends, she cannot go to the Gattopardo for her daily cappuccino and cassatina. She cannot go to the public library. And her shopping is delivered for her; everything including fruit and veg, from the local supermarket. But she is barely seeing or talking to anyone. The postman sometimes lingers on the porch for a few minutes, realising maybe that this is the only face-to-face conversation she’s had in days, sometimes weeks.

Silvia is grateful for technology, which means she can speak to her sons, both living overseas, as though they were only in the next town; but she does yearn for real interaction. Technology offers a substitute in this crazy time, but it isn’t the same thing. Not by a long shot.  

She has things which keep her busy at home; not only keep her busy, but which she genuinely enjoys - baking, making preserves, reading, crochet. And thanks to Francesca, one of her granddaughters, she’s discovered Netflix. But she misses normal life, when everyone sat together, hugged and kissed. Sometimes, Silvia wonders if she’ll ever see things come back to what they were before.

Her walks by the sea, along the lungomare are what is keeping her sane. The fresh, bracing sea air, and the few - all too few - interactions with dog-walkers when their dogs come running up to her. She walks everyday - she only misses those days when it’s pouring down, when the paths are slippery. A bad fall, on an icy patch, a couple of years ago, just after George died, had put her in mortal fear of that. She had been lucky that she hadn’t broken anything. Or so said the paramedic who’d attended her. 

But she’d been in blinding pain for weeks after, literally needing painkillers almost round the clock, just to cope with the basics. The brain fog, and the pain when the painkillers wore off, had heightened her new sense of isolation and loneliness, and nearly driven her mad. She had sworn to herself to never repeat the experience. Even thinking about it now gives her anxiety. 

Enough of this! She’ll end up getting all upset, and she’ll need to take one of her ‘relaxing pills’. Silvia’s GP had prescribed anti-anxiety medication, when she had explained about the palpitations and dizzy spells which had started during this wretched pandemic. But she doesn’t want to be dependent on a pill, and does all she can to not need them.

With a little shake, she pulls herself to her feet, and gives one last look outside. The snow is still falling thickly; the cars are completely covered, as are the sidewalks, and indeed her own garden path. If this keeps up, she won’t be able to go out tomorrow. 

As she turns away from the window, a memory comes to her, crystal clear. She pulls on her heaviest cardigan, winds a scarf round her neck. In the hall, she tugs on a coat, and shuffles her feet into her wellies. She removes the safety chain, and after some fumbling with the key, she opens the front door. On her stoop, she takes a deep breath. The garden path is completely white, the snowflakes glistening under the light of the street lamp as they start to harden. Snow continues to fall from several directions at once. Gingerly, she steps off the stoop, the fresh snow crunching underfoot. She takes a tentative step forward; and another. And starts to sway to a tune only she can hear. 

She is aware of how odd she must look, this old, bed-haired, woman, swaying on her garden path at three in the morning in her pyjamas and wellies, her massive shapeless cardigan crammed under an ill-fitting coat. But in her mind, she is a young girl once again, dancing with the love of her life. She is a mother, cheering her boys as they sled downhill, screaming with excitement. She is standing with George at the rail of the ship on their ruby wedding cruise to Alaska. 

She lifts her face to the sky relishing the snowflakes as they land on her face. And smiles, knowing she is not alone..