Snow

Tentatively, I reach out to brush the snow out of her braid. I try not to give myself away or disturb her. Though I am quite sure she can perceive my touch from behind, she doesn’t react, as if to let me know it is okay to care. This sweet moment is fleeting in the chilly night, under this half moon, with a wind bringing the loneliness of winter. But neither of us are cold, because it is warm here in the company of each other.

Having trouble sleeping? she asks, turning around. I do not answer, thinking sleep is the same as waking, and with her around I am always awake and alive. She does not ask again. The ground turns whiter, covering her words completely. Within these silences, time ceases to tick the fall of the powdery snow. A smile passes between us. Eventually she gets up and goes inside under the excuse of disturbing me. I protest but I realize she is ready to sleep now.

Outside I am entranced by the snow falling into my palm. I stand there for a long time. I observe the same moon grow and wane, watch footprints appear, then get covered again. I bid many good mornings.

And many farewells. Yet they are always misleading—I bid farewell like any other and expected a safe return. But this time, as my compensation for waiting, blood bounces on the frosted ground, soaks into the snow, and stains it dark. Shreds of pale fabric and snippets of hair blow on the wind. The smell of burning flesh, broken shields, crushed armor, and rolling heads cover my vision and dye it with the color of pain. Anything with a voice uses it to scream in these primal moments.

Upon return she is haunted by a thing of insatiable appetite, a kind of voracious parasite brought on by the world. I am utterly useless; there is nothing I can do to stop any of it from consuming her whole. Beside a plethora of bandages and medicines, I just watch. Watch knowing which way her path will go, and that is down, where she will disappear.

And in due time, she does. Slowly, quietly, it begins to snow. Pain rises in my eyes, tear ducts seeming to burst. All the colors blur together. Tears seem useless without someone to know, to soothe these pains, to speak with on nights when we still were. The snow on my shoulders makes me shiver with the sting of loneliness. I weep, unable to contain myself within a purpose. The snow builds and threatens to drown me. As everything fades to white, I grow weary, drained of all that I have to offer, freezing in the bitterness of being so alone, my fingers bluing and my mind drunk on grief.

I fall asleep.

Eventually the place is draped in a funeral shade of white, dripping away into oblivion.

Ori C. Li is an undergraduate in MA with interests in writing, drawing and aimlessly wandering around town. She has been featured on It's Lit with PhDJ.