The Snow Day I Never Forgot

It was a Friday afternoon when the clouds talked back.

There had been a special feeling in the air. The world was quiet; breathless. Time itself had paused in our neighborhood.

After a few moments of listening, I ran to my window and threw open the curtains - yes! The neighborhood was blanketed by the peaceful quilt of snow. Thick flakes hung in the air like pixie dust. Indeed, to my 9- year-old mind, it wouldn't have surprised me if fairies themselves had personally enchanted the day just for me. My small face broke into an enourmous smile.

Naturally, I tore through the house at an hour before one that any good people should wake up to. My parents were less than thrilled at the relevation of the fresh snowfall, but I wouldn't let their mood stop me! Nothing would keep me from preaching the wonders of the snow day up and down the house, indeed, neighborhood if I was allowed. 

My parents eventually staggered from their room, moaning in a zombie-like tongue that I couldn't understand; a common dialect spoken by grown-ups before their first coffee. It's one that I now am very fluent in.

Before they could even finish the first cup, I was out the door with my jacket, gloves, hat, scratched-up sunglasses, scarf and boots, as were the rest of the neighborhood children. Clad in mismatched gear, we hollered our war-cry for all to hear: 

"Snow day!!!" 

We built snow forts and sledded, shoved slush down our enemies' backs, had snowball fights complete with snow artillery and air strikes. A few days later, maybe during that very weekend, one of the kids accidently broke his neighbor's fence after crashing into it during a sled race near the end of the day. It was the drama of the neighborhood once the kid figured out that the neighbor could press charges. It all amounted to nothing, though, much to the neighborhood gossips' disapointment. But that was later.

Then came the hour that the kids got bored. They turned in for hot chocolate and video games, by themselves or by the calls of their parents until their numbers dwindled and the wet, muddy, snow had become dirty slush. They shook off the snow that covered them and left their boots out to dry. Any of the kids left had been put to work by their parents on shoveling driveways and walks, cleaning cars, or sprinkling salt all over the sidewalks in front of their houses.

I was one of the last kids left, and I shivered from all the melted snow soaking under my jacket. 

Suckers, I remember thinking. I shoveled the driveway during the snowball fight for extra ammunition! 

I wandered aimlessly for a while, coming up with stories in my head; daydreaming. Eventually, out of boredom, I was about to head inside when I had a feeling. It was a chill that climbed up from the base of my spine all the way to my head, one that felt chilly and comforting all at the same time. I shook myself like a dog to clear myself of the sense. Maybe it was the cold, maybe it was something else.

I began to walk away from my house. I knew I wasn't going far away. To this day, many years later, I can't figure out where this knowing came from. All I know is that I walked.

I went around our entire street, and then I went behind it, to where there were more plants and trees, until I spied the place I wanted to go.

The place was a little hill with a big apple tree behind all of the houses. I could see the neighborhood, but I felt very far away, somehow. At peace. I waddled up the hill in my clumsy snow pants and lay down heavily beside the apple tree to watch the clouds pass. The snow was pristine; untouched, in this area. Nobody had come up here during the snowfall. 

I remember wondering why I hadn't been there before, if it was such a peaceful place? I made a mental note to visit during the autumn to eat apples.

I also remember spending more than a few calm days there later on, reading books, eating plump, juicy, apples, and most of all: cloudgazing.

More than a few of the clouds looked like people I knew, so I pretended to have conversations with them. I could've sworn that they made amusing shapes just for me. Eventully, I grew drowsy, as many small children often do. I found myself telling the sky, the clouds, about my day, my life. The clouds would never disagree with me or tease me. The clouds would listen, and I was certain they would keep their secrets forever, unspoken. 

I remember that I was practically asleep when I heard it. 

"We've seen too much from up here of the growing-up kind. Children grow cruel in time. But I don't think that it's inevitable. Just don't forget..." 

The voice was whispery and quiet and loud all at the same time. It came from each direction at once, but I just knew who spoke. It was a little cloud in the shape of a heart way up above me. I felt calm. Among the fluffy, comforting snow and the cool air and the beating sun, I fell asleep with heavy eyelids.

I woke up a while later to my parents exasperatedly yelling my name. After a confused look at the clouds, I tromped all the way home, staring up at the sky the entire time. I tripped many times, but in spite (or maybe because) of it, the clouds looked the same as they always had - whispy and decidedly non-sentient.

 I couldn't explain what I experienced to my parents, so I didn't try, and since then, I've often been described as someone with "their head in the clouds," but I don't mind. 

To this day, I've never forgotten. I still listen to the clouds.

Maybe you should too - after all, who knows when the clouds talk back?