Winter

Peering out my window after shutting off my alarm, I can tell that there is at least three more inches of snow on the ground. There was six to begin with; so now, there is almost a foot. I tear my eyes away from the window before I can start admiring everything about the winter wonderland outside. I get dressed for the day, pulling on my warmest clothes, preparing for the inevitable freezing air. There is a fire going downstairs, but I don't have time to sit there. I scarf down a hot breakfast and grab my backpack from the chair next to me, then brace my face for the cold as I pull open the front door.

I step outside, into a world so blindingly white that I have to blink a few times in order to regain control of my vision. I’m wrapped snugly in my coat, ready to catch the Snowbus to get to school. I don’t even shiver as I wait, though the temperature is well below freezing. I’m used to it. After five years of our little wood being covered by ice and snow, our whole village is used to it. The younger ones don’t remember a time when there wasn’t any white outside, other than the tiny flowers that used to grow beside the road. Us kids used to swim in the lake, with the weeping willows hiding us under their curtains of hair and shutting the world out while we played. Now, the ice over the lake is so thick that it has become glass, a mirror that displays your reflection. It is impossible to see the creatures underneath. I wonder what has become of them, since they have been hibernating for so long.

My thoughts are interrupted by the bus with its giant snow wheels. The engine purrs as it slows down. It is also white, not only because of the blanket of snow that conceals the top of everything it lands on, but also because the yellow paint it used to wear has faded away to nothing. Now only the base coat remains. I think, just for a minute, that it would look very pretty with its yellow against the harsh white, a smear of brightly colored paint on the blank canvas around it. The doors swoosh open, and I climb on. I am the only one. Many people have left because of the seemingly eternal frost. Many have stayed also, but they don’t live in my area. More still have taken to homeschooling. I imagine them staying at home, enveloped in a blanket by the fire, calm and peaceful as they sip hot cocoa and carefully do their math and history and science. They are learning the same things we are, but their environment would make it easier, more tranquil. I am jealous until I imagine them falling asleep. 

I turn to the window as the bus begins to move once again, carrying its passengers to their destination. Little wooden houses flash by my window, some with smoke coming from the chimney. The fireplace is made of stone, and the inside walls are insulated and coated in plaster, but the outside brown is aesthetically pleasing no matter what season is here. I close my eyes and remember when we had seasons. The vivid green and pink and purple and blue of spring, how the tree branches were full of leaves. The scorching heat of the summer, which became less and less until the snow stopped melting. That happened first five years ago. I force myself to think of autumn, of the leaves turning brown and orange and red and falling off the trees, leaving their branches bare. It was always beautiful when they began to change, when they clung to their branches for dear life until they were shaken off. 

Even now, there is a little bit of color. The evergreens persist, and little holly berries hold fast to brown and white tree limbs. It is a good reminder that not everything is cold and dead. Icicles hang off of every surface, sparkling in the sunlight. The bus approaches the school building, slowing once again to release the children it carried. I skip the last step, hopping out of the vehicle. The snow crunches under my boots, packed firmly against itself. I look around, watching the sun gleam off the snow, still fresh from the night before. Then, a single, tiny flake flutters onto my nose and melts. More follow it down from the sky, falling to meet my outstretched, gloved hand. Even though I am used to the cold, watching snow fall and feeling it on my tongue and eyelashes and nose is a beauty which I have never gotten over.

At recess, a few of the older kids decide to go ice skating. I follow, even though I’m not very big. I’m at a weird, in between age. The older kids ignore me until we get to a river. It is too wide to jump over. Most of them slide carefully across on their feet, as gracefully as if they’d done it a thousand times before. Some closer to my age move on their hands and knees, or even their stomach. A few look back at me. One of the bigger girls nods encouragingly. I realize that while they all are rooting for me, I have to do this on my own. Tentatively, I put one foot on the ice. It feels sturdy but slippery under my shoe. My foot slides forward, and I pull it back towards me until it stops. Holding my arms up to steady myself, I lift my other foot and put it further out on the ice. 

Someone cheers. I keep focusing on not falling. I slide my first foot slowly forward, then stabilize. I move the other one. Gaining confidence, I go again and again. More people cheer as I make my way across, moving steadily, but faster than before. Finally, I lift my foot, ready to place it on the snow, but I slip. Before I can fall, hands grab me and pull me back, righting me, not letting me topple. I look up and see the girl who nodded at me earlier grinning. I am part of the group now. If winter is a time of friendship, maybe it is good that we have it year round.