A Beautiful Killer

It has come again. A delight to most, like those with currency passes. It’s the reason they’re here. It falls and invites people to see, play, and touch it. They marvel at its intricate details of lace, waiting for it to grow into the soft powder they've heard.

Another leaving its cold sting upon my nose. Constant, like a comment mocking when you know you shouldn’t respond. Alone they are fine – quite beautiful. Come nightfall there’ll be tens and hundreds at this speed. By morning this entire field soaked by the biggest wet blanket known to mankind: snow.

Watch them pull their faces to catch a snowflake on their tongue. Once there was a time, I did the same. Leaping from the veranda ledge into a foot of snow. Rolling and tumbling, the powder latching to my clothes. Balls of war with neighbors then run inside when its power fully charged cold splinters into skin.

Orange warmth by crackling wood, notes of rich cocoa from the mug. Except it wasn’t just cocoa. An inner burn, numbness on the lips. Eyes leaking, body limp; I never could handle it. But you would carry that glass bottle everywhere. Add it to every dish.

It has come again. Mocked by these white specs who laugh at their victims. A beautiful killer. December third, the day you casually walked out front while the snow at its deadliest caught you, freezing over unaware its forty under.

Oh, how I hate the snow.