Epiphany

Edith had always loved the snow. She would watch the thick q-tip flakes gently dance down onto the ground with awe. Once enough snow had accumulated, she would reverently scoop the snow into a mason jar, closing it as tight as her frail hands could.

Her granddaughter, Louisa, had asked her once why she collected snow and Edith looked at her with a mischievous twinkle in her eye and said, “Snow is special. It retains memories. Always be mindful when stepping onto fresh snow. Snow always remembers.” She let out a soft laugh and placed her new jar of snow on the mantle above the fireplace with the others, each one glimmering with secrets.

“You’re funny, Grandma. That doesn’t even make sense.” Louisa laughed and hugged her, inhaling the sharp scent of peppermint and leather that surrounded her like a cloud. Over her grandmother’s shoulder, Louisa glanced at the mantle, perplexed. The snow in their glass containers.

It never melted.

***

It had been ten years since Edith died. It was an especially brutal winter the year she passed, a blizzard howled all season long, crying for the loss of life. Louisa looked down at the worn legal document in her hands, rereading it.

I leave Abbott Cottage and all its belongings to my only grandchild, Louisa Rose Abbott. All of which to be received on her eighteenth birthday. 

Signed,

Edith Ann Abbott

“I will be on my way, Ms. Abbott.” Louisa peered up at the older gentleman standing in front of her, the lawyer who brought the will.

“Thanks, Phil.” She said softly and gave him a tight smile. Phil considered her for a moment and nodded.

“This is for you as well.” Phil reached into his pocket and handed her a small rectangle slip of paper. “It leaves this weekend, you can call to reschedule the flight but I figured that you might want to go see it soon. You let me know if you need any help, okay?” With that, he walked toward his car and called out from over his shoulder, “And happy birthday!” 

Louisa crumpled up the will and shoved it in her back pocket, her mouth dry. She felt her chest tighten. Maybe it’s the heat, she thought and retreated to the safety of her air-conditioned apartment. 

The flight to Colorado was a quick one, about 2 hours from Arizona. The weather wasn’t that much different, if not breezier than Arizona in the summer. When Louisa approached the charming cottage, she felt waves of nostalgia. She could almost picture the tiny cottage the last time she saw it, surrounded by the mounds of white snow, hidden in the valley where no one would see the glowing lights from within. Tentatively, she unlocked the heavy wooden door and stepped inside. Nothing had changed; if anything, it was just a tad dustier. 

Louisa crept around the cottage and stopped at the mantle above the fireplace, dumbstruck. There were seven jars of snow, perfectly preserved, still glittering with mysteries. She reached out to touch one and felt the cool surface. How could it still be frozen? She opened up her backpack, shoved all the jars into it, and continued walking through the house. 

In the end, she ended up just bringing the jars of snow back to Arizona. All that was left in the cottage were moth eaten blankets, dusty figurines, and bittersweet memories. 

When Louisa arrived home that same day, she dumped the jars onto the floor of her room and studied them. 

“What am I supposed to do with these?” she muttered. Grandma treasured those jars more than a normal person would. Curious, Louisa reached for the jar labeled ‘5’. 

“Well, Grandma, let’s see what happens.” She opened the jar, tossing the lid aside. “Huh. I wonder if it’s still cold.” She stuck her hand in the jar, the snow bit her and she found herself spiraling into a memory that was not her own. 

Edith could barely move.

“Trish. Snow.” she rasped. A blonde woman approached Edith’s bed, and gave her a reassuring smile. 

“Of course, Edith. Just like last year.” Trish pushed Edith’s bed toward the window. She opened the window and went over to the cabinet near Edith’s bed, pulling out a new mason jar and placing it in Edith’s hands. 

“For…her,” Edith stated, struggling to wrap her wrinkled hands around the jar. Trish placed her hands on top of Edith’s and guided her to the window where snow was accumulated. 

“For her.” Trish agreed.

“What the hell?” Louisa yelped, snatching her hand back from the jar. She stared at the jar and watched the snow slowly melt. She stuck her hand back into the jar and…nothing happened. This isn’t real. Louisa chanted. It can’t be real. It doesn’t make sense.

She thought back to when she asked her grandmother why she put snow in jars. 

“Snow is special, it retains memories.” Grandma once said. What if it was real?

Louisa rocked back and forth, trying to calm herself. If this is true, I should open another jar. She reached for the jar labeled ‘4’ . Again she found herself spiraling into a memory that was not her own. “Oh no,” she choked out before being swallowed whole.

Edith reached for a mason jar and shuffled toward the window, feeling her body protest with every step. 

“Mrs. Abbott? What are you doing?” Trish asked, her bright green eyes concerned. 

“Snow. For the mantle and for Lou.” Edith said, furrowing her brow. “I-I don’t know how to explain it.” She looked apologetically at Trish, eyes pleading. “Please help me and put the jar in my house? Lou has to know.” Sensing the urgency in Edith’s voice, if not the reason why, Trish went over and embraced the frail old woman. 

“Of course. Let’s get that snow in there.”

Blinking back into reality, Louisa went numb. She had never understood why her grandma sent her away at a young age, confusion and hurt tainting her everyday life trying to figure out why Grandma would do such a thing. Desperate to know more, she reached for the next jar. 

“Grandma, why do you collect snow?” Edith’s six year old granddaughter Lou asked . Edith knew this question would come up one day, she was surprised that the question wasn’t asked sooner. 

“Snow is special. It retains memories. Always be mindful when stepping onto fresh snow, snow always remembers,” said Edith with a sly smile. Lou laughed and hugged her. 

“You’re funny, Grandma. That doesn’t even make sense.” Edith internally wept but kept a smile on her face. One day, Lou, Edith thought. One day it will. 

“Come now, Lou. It’s bedtime.” Edith ushered the child to a pink room, decorated with frolicking bunnies and tucked her in, placing a kiss on her curly head. 

“Love you,” she said 

“Love you,” Lou echoed, half-asleep. Edith closed the door and not a moment after, heard a faint knock on the main door. She paced over and opened it. A young blonde woman with kind green eyes stood, her light blue scrubs starting to become damp with the snow. 

“Edith?” The young woman asked. 

“Yes. You must be Trish. Please, come in.”

Louisa buried her face in her hands, head throbbing. Emotions high and conflicted. She had gathered that Grandma was ill, but what from? She felt her chest ache. Why? That was the only question that rang through her head. She set aside the melted jar of snow and pulled close the next one, bracing herself before plunging her hand into the frost. 

Edith sat outside on her porch one evening when Lou was settled and asleep in bed. The four-year old was always chatting, asking questions left and right. She would argue with Edith why her bedtime should be later, only to fall asleep twenty minutes past her bedtime. Edith couldn’t help but chuckle when she put the little tyrant to bed. 

Afterward, she bundled up in her favorite white snow coat and held a steaming cup of tea, contemplating her options. It wouldn’t be too long now before she would need help. How much time did she have left? Two years? It didn’t matter, it would never be enough. She had discovered that she had gaps in her memory, even the smallest of events, and it troubled her deeply. It was inevitable, this slow and ongoing torture. Could she ever make it right for Lou? How could she make it better? Besides collecting the snow in jars, she wasn’t sure what else to give to her beloved granddaughter. Edith’s own mother collected jars of snow, as well as her grandmother. She cursed herself, regretting that she didn’t start sooner. Even if her jars of snow only explained a fraction of her decisions to Lou, that would be enough. With a deep sigh, she got up, her bones creaking, and shuffled back inside the cottage.

Giving her grandchild Abbott cottage would be a good start to make amends. Edith nodded. A good start indeed. 

“I need air,” Louisa fretted, gathering herself and the last jar of snow. “I need…” What did she need? She needed to get out, to go somewhere, to breathe. She headed toward the mountain outside her apartment, where the trails were well-worn and the peak overlooked the city. She needed time to sort herself. Perhaps it was the confusion and new emotions that blossomed inside of her that she reached the mountaintop faster than most. It was sweltering hot, Arizona unforgiving in its summer blaze. Panting, Louisa collapsed on dry ground. Such a strange day it had been. She considered if it could even be a fever dream, but when she glanced at her hand clutching the ice cold jar of snow, her hopes that it was a hallucination faded. She raised her hand to unscrew the lid but hesitated. It was the last one. Did she really want to know the truth? She waited ten years to find out the reasons why. Taking a deep breath for courage, she opened the last jar. 

“I am sorry, Mrs. Abbott. But you have Alzheimer’s disease,” the doctor said, his eyes apologetic. Edith looked at him numb, her throat tightening. 

“I-,” she began, fidgeting with her hands then cleared her throat. “How long until…?” The young doctor looked at his notes. 

“Four years. Potentially five. We will have to evaluate you more. I am so sorry,” he began, but Edith didn’t hear him. So soon, she thought. Just like Mom.

After her appointment with the doctor, she sat in her car to process the new information. She couldn’t have her son and daughter-in-law take care of her. She remembered taking care of her own mother and the heartache that came with it. Besides, her son had a toddler, a family. This should be a time of joy for them, raising a child. Edith shook her head, resolute. She wouldn’t have her son take care of her, it just wasn’t in her to ask. 

Bzzt, her phone whined.

“Hello?”

“Hello. Is this Edith Abbott?” A voice inquired. 

“Yes, this is she.”

“I regret to inform you that both Mr. Matthew James Abbott and Mrs. Claire Elizabeth Abbott have died in a car crash this afternoon. Their child, Louisa Rose Abbott, is in the hospital with minor injuries but is expected to survive. Will you please come down to the hospital to meet with us?”

Every fiber of Edith’s body went numb and her hands shook, her eyes blurring. If the earth could tear open and swallow her whole, she would’ve welcomed it in that moment.

“Ma’am?” the voice called .

“What is the address?” Edith asked, her voice breaking.

An hour later, Edith sat in a soft chair in the hospital room, cradling a dark-haired child and rocking back and forth. Her heart broke even more when the toddler whimpered, “Hurts. Hurts. Hurts” whilst clutching her arm in a bright pink cast. 

“Shhh, my little Lou,” Edith whispered, stroking the curly-haired child. “Grandma is here. Grandma is here.” Eventually, the exhausted two-year old fell asleep, nestled in her grandmother’s warm arms, feeling secure.

“For her,” Edith swore, feeling her eyes burn with unshed tears. “I will take care of her as long I am able. Be damned Alzheimers. For my one and only. For my Lou.”



Louisa gasped, jolting out of the memory. Guilt pummeled her. After all these years wondering and feeling hurt. The nights crying herself to sleep, the wistful glances when her classmates had a birthday and the parents brought cupcakes for the class. The belief that she just wan’t good enough. She wasn’t given up because she was unlovable, there was more to the story than she thought there would be. She tipped the melted jar of snow, angling it to pour a slow, steady trickle onto the ground.

She understood. The weight in her heart lifted and she bowed her head. 

She felt the snow before she saw it, the crisp, chill air tickling the back of her neck. When she looked up at the sky, there were q-tip like flakes of snow brazenly dancing down to the desert floor. She watched the scene, bewildered. 

Arizona. In the summer. Snowing.

Closing her eyes, Louisa threw her head back toward the sky, welcoming the frigid travelers. The frosty snowflakes drifted down and kissed her face, smelling of peppermint and leather, her cheeks turning pink from the icy flurry. Tears streamed down her face, and she smiled, feeling like glass, she could burst into a million tiny pieces. 

She lifted the empty jar toward the sky. The snow floated toward the mason jar, as if knowing her intent. Her eyes shone, reflecting the sun and snow while memories danced around her.

Snow is special,

it retains memories.