Softly, In The Snow.

Another story of a wintry walk.

It is winter again, and the air is frozen around me, its minuscule rows of serrated teeth biting into my warmth. Branches above me glitter with layers of ice, chattering quietly.

We sat below these leaf-less boughs once.

The sidewalk beneath my feet is slippery, attempting to disgrace me, to pull me even further downwards. The wind gusts through frozen trunks, cachinnating coldly above me. 

My eyes remain on the snow-dusted concrete.

I miss pretending I was happy--it was a specious lie oftentimes, but never plausible enough to cut short my entirely dilatory reminiscences. This solitary freedom purported it would replace you, possibly even bring me satisfaction.

The wind has become a derisive wheezing, mocking and unsympathetic.

The clouds overhead darken with a promise of snow, something to cover the putrid memories that are attached to me, as a tongue to a frozen lamp-post. The removal, however, would be infinitely more painful. I'm afraid I just don't have the heart to do it.

A few snowflakes flit around the edges of my vision, attempting to shift my down-turned gaze. My mind is elsewhere, however.

Your arms outstretched, laughing as an angel appeared beneath you in the snow--but I had assumed I was already looking at one. It seems like so much more than two years ago.

A shiver runs through me, and I sigh, the hypothermic air biting my throat upon inhalation.

I remember when my heart felt too large for my chest, when holding your hand made my blood pound in my ears. Now, however, that same organ is desiccated, dry--in its sere state it now merely pumps the ash of your memories, incessantly chewing over the unhappiness you left behind.

It makes my eyes burn and my stomach clench. There is no joy to be found in the cold, the solitude. The snow is falling heavily now, coating the iced trees in a new, less revealing, wardrobe. I look behind me, and see my footsteps fade into the swirls of wind-swept snow--eventually, the memories will fade, and be covered, weathered away by life's changing seasons.

If they are not, then I don't know how much more of this I can withstand.

Author's Note

Another (fictional) seasonal ambling.

Reviews

[FJ Davis]

Like the hurt athlete, this young man has simply got to learn to "walk it off." When he discovers that "falling in love" is more about how he feels than anything else, he may not grieve so deeply for a lost object of affection. In a sense, he has never really lost her.
"Softly in the Snow" is a superb bit of flash fiction. Strong, stark imagery, smart, metaphorical references and a dramatic storyline combine quite nicely to attest to the sheer quality of this piece.
This one definitely goes on the plus side of the ledger, Ben.