The Cold Warmth of a First Snow

The beautiful, white, soft rain floats all around my eyes. I can’t help but stare out my bedroom window as I watch its captivating dance. Wrapped up in warmth, I lean my head against the window, feeling the cold glass against my skin, and watching as my breath softly fogs up the glass. Today is the first time it’s snowed this year. Oh, how I love this feeling. And, oh, how I hate it. Memories flood into my mind. Memories of when I was a kid—carefree and full of so much joy. 

I remember the first snow of when I was eight years old; It was a cold day—just like today—and I bolted out of bed with excitement. I ran all around my childhood home, waking my brothers and parents up, giggling and flailing around with joy. It was snowing! My favorite time of the year is finally here! I would impatiently sit at the table as my mom made pancakes—a family, first snow, tradition. We weren’t allowed to go play outside until after breakfast. Back then, I always hated it. I wanted to be outside playing in the snow as soon as I woke up! Mom and dad would set the table and me and my two brothers helped with making the hot chocolate. I remember those mornings so clearly. The way mom had her long, brown hair up in a messy bun. The way dad would hold me as I spoke of everything I would do playing in the snow. The way my older brothers would laugh at my giddiness. The way all of us would talk about anything and everything as we ate together. Back then, I hated having to wait to go outside. But now, I adore those mornings. I adore those memories with them. 

I’m twenty-six now, sitting in bed, in my one bedroom apartment. I’m warm in my heated apartment, and yet, I feel so very cold. The snow gets heavier, and so does my chest. This bittersweet feeling consumes me as I stare at the snowfall. I can see a park from my window, where young kids are running and playing with their families. I smile at them. As I wish them the best, I turn away from the cold glass and head into the small kitchen. Time for breakfast. I’m not hungry, but I have to do this. It’s tradition. I get out my phone and pull up a photo of my mom’s famous pancake recipe. I don’t need it anymore, but I still like to have it out. I love her handwriting. It’s messy but so beautiful. I set my phone down and get everything I need to make breakfast. After a little while, it’s made and set out on the table. I boil a pot of water and stir in the hot chocolate powder. 

“Thanks for breakfast, Mom…” I say when I sit down. I take a deep breath as I bite into the fresh pancakes. A wave of familiar tastes hit me and my chest gets even heavier as more memories flood in. 

It was an especially cold winter that year. I was eighteen. Just like any other year, when the first snow came, my mom made breakfast. She needed help this time around, though. She was extremely weak and had to be in a wheelchair. None of us saw this coming. It was so sudden—how could we have ever prepared for something like this? She got very sick by the end of the summer, and by the time winter came, she could hardly walk on her own anymore. All of us were so scared of something we couldn’t stop. And yet, mom still had such a bright smile. She still cooked for us—with our help—even though she was in so much pain. Dad slowly laughed and smiled less. My brothers became very distant. I was always by my mom’s side—hoping, praying, that I could make her better. If I just took care of her, every second of every day, she would get better. She had to. She just had to. There’s no way something so awful would happen to someone so amazing.

A few months later, she was gone. It was a week after my nineteenth birthday. On my birthday, I just sat by her side in the hospital and held her hand. She was unresponsive and in a haze until her last breath. The grief and pain I felt consumed me. After she passed away, dad was always in a drunken stupor. He sobbed and sobbed for months. My eldest brother, Jacob, moved far away. Aidan, my other brother, cursed all of us out and stopped speaking to us. My family—who were once the closest family I knew—so suddenly fell to pieces. After a couple years of trying to take care of my dad, I couldn’t handle it anymore. So, my grandparents took him in, and I moved away.

Now, every year, I keep our long-lost family tradition close, and cook for myself every first snow. It’s all I can do for mom. It’s how I remember her. So, as tears pour down my cheeks, I continue to eat her pancakes until every bit of it is gone—my hunger replaced with awful, grief infested knots in my stomach. Lost in memories, I barely hear my phone ringing. It pulls me out of my mind, and I clear my throat as I pick up the phone.

“Hello?” I speak in a tone of ‘I definitely wasn’t just crying, I’m happy!’ to try to sound like I’m doing okay. It’s a habit I’m sure everyone has.

“Hey, Kaila…it’s Danny. I just woke up and saw that it’s snowing. How are you holding up?” My closest friend asks me through the phone.

“…” I pause and try to keep myself together. “You know…it’s snowing.” I speak in a broken, weary voice. 

“It sure is.” He sympathetically replies. “Can I take you out somewhere? Get your mind off of things?”

“Yeah…I’ll get ready.” He tells me he’ll be here in ten minutes, so I throw on a hoodie over my sweater and put on black sweatpants. This has also started to become a pattern each year. Danny knows my story, and since I was twenty-four—a year after we met—he takes me out on the first snow. I’m very thankful for him. I think I would be in a much worse state if I hadn’t met him. It’s still so hard, though. I’m exhausted. 

I get a text from him saying he’s here. So, I grab my winter beanie and gloves and walk out my door—leaving the dirty plate and half drunk cup of hot chocolate on the table. I can’t clean up from breakfast until the day is over. Maybe it’s because I feel like I’d lose my mom all over again if I cleaned up on our special family day. Or, maybe it’s because I need evidence that we once had those days. It’s not just mom I’ve lost. Dad passed a few years after her from alcoholism. I haven’t spoken to either of my brothers since I was twenty. I’ve lost my whole family.

I shake the depressing thoughts away as I go down the elevator of my apartment building. As soon as I see Danny, the walls I tried so hard to build up this morning came crashing down. My legs grow weak and Danny wraps his arms around me to keep me from falling. I sob into his chest as snow falls on us, my freezing cold tears burning my skin. 

“I’ve got you, Kaila. I’ve got you.” He whispers as he holds me tighter, like if he let go I would completely fall to pieces. 

“She’s gone…my mom is gone…my dad…oh, my brothers-“ I speak through sobs as I shake uncontrollably. I can’t do this. I can’t keep doing this. It’s too heavy. It hurts too much. It’s not fair. She was a good person. We were a good family. Why did she have to leave us? Why did she leave me? Why did dad leave me? I can’t do this…

“I know…I know. It’s okay, let it all out. I’m here, Kaila.” Danny comforts me as if he hears each ugly thought of mine, and my heart grieves. My heart screams and cuts and burns as it seemingly gets torn apart and put together all at once. 

After what feels like forever, I’m all out of tears, and he takes me to a small coffee shop nearby. He knows how much I love coffee. We walk there—a perk to living in a city—and my eyes burn as I watch the snow. It’s so beautiful and so cold, yet I feel warm walking beside my best friend. It’s amazing how people can change you. It’s amazing how just being next to someone you love can make everything feel lighter. Like I really can get through anything with him by my side.

“You want your regular?” The man behind the counter asks me, and I nod and give him a small smile. “And what about you, sir?” He asks Danny.

“I’ll have a small hot chocolate, please.” He replies and pays for our drinks. We sit down in the corner of the small shop full of warm colors. It feels so different than it did just outside. 

“Thank you for doing all this for me, Danny.” I wearily say with a pained smile.

“Of course, Kaila.” He puts his hand over mine and smiles back at me. “I know it’s a difficult day for you.” He squeezes my hand before letting go and gets up to grab our drinks.

“Thanks.” I say when he hands me my coffee. I breath in it’s tasteful smell and take a sip, it’s warmth flowing through my body. “…Mom loved this coffee shop.” I smile a little less painfully.

“So I’ve heard.” Danny replies. “She sounds like an amazing woman.”

“She was.” I continue to talk about her and my family to Danny. I tell him about all of our great times together. Family trips, movie nights, playing games together—all of it. When I’m with him, I’m able to talk about my family with feelings other than grief. Yes, the grief is still there—I believe it always will be—but so is all of the amazing time I spent with my mom, dad, and brothers. This grief—although heavy as it is—is proof that there was once so much love. 

I’m suddenly reminded of a promise I made to mom. Back in the hospital, before she became unresponsive, she looked at me with such emotion in her eyes and took my hands. She spoke in such a weak, trembling voice, “Kaila. No matter what happens to me, promise me you’ll live a long, happy life. Okay?…I won’t be here to witness it, but I want to hear all about it when you get to heaven and see me again.” I wept. And I promised her I would tell her all about my happy life.

Mom, it all still hurts. Some days I can’t even get out of bed. Most days are unbearable. But I know you would be sad for me if I threw it all away. I’m slowly finding happiness again. I want to make you and dad proud. Mom, I’m living on. For you, for dad, for my brothers, for Danny, and for me.