[TALE] First Memories of Snow
Our street was so much wider and longer than it is now; the houses so much taller. Night had fallen, and mother and father had brought me out into the cold darkness to see the snowfall. All was still and quiet, the darkness embracing the houses on the street with no trace of malice. No light came from the windows, save from the electric candelabras which mark the approach of Christmas in every Swedish home. The streetlights shone with a warm orange that I still remember today as fire, a comfort amidst the silence of the snowy street. The stars could not be seen; instead, there was only falling snow dancing in the black night, gently coming to rest on cheeks still untouched by age.
I trudged through the thick layer of snow, a pristine whiteness that burned with the soft oranges of home. I felt and heard my boots scraping the asphalt beneath the powdery white clouds that I was kicking up before me. But I did not look at my feet; instead, my attention was on the strange space which had come into being on this night-girdled street.
Endless specks of white emerged from the blackness above, hung in the air for a moment, and disappeared into the whiteness below. Every speck seemed to me a little world living and dying in the span of a single cloudy breath. I wondered at the lives of these specks, and moved my face as close as I could to the lazily falling flakes to see what they looked like. Each looked subtly different, and yet each one fell with that same indolent softness. In my fascination, the world around me faded into a whisper; I forgot the world of the street, and became privy instead to the secret world of falling snow.
It was a world of stoic calm, each speck making its descent with neither haste nor hesitation. But as I watched the snowflakes fall, I started to see a violent determination that hid just under the surface, breaking out all at once in a dizzying frenzy. Though calmly born from the black night sky, each little speck was overcome with a passion for the great sea of white below, rushing headlong to join its kin. It was a maddening blend of tranquility and fury, and I saw in my periphery how thousands upon thousands of snowflakes whirled around in this dance of living and dying. The snowflakes had become a strange feature of the space around me, little nodes of ice that quivered into and out of existence.
At this time we had reached the crossing at the end of the street. No cars came that night – how could they have? Our street was the only island of existence in the vast impenetrable night, and that ink-black darkness marked the very end of everything. But what stood out from the blackness in unmistakable splendor was the short side of the house which marked the end of the street.
It was an old, though still pristine, house in whitewashed mud-brick framed at the corners by blue wooden beams. It was a stark contrast to the cold darkness of the night. A single window faced the street – a blue frame in the white wall – and in it stood an electric candelabra. It had seven candles mounted unto a red triangular wooden frame. It was a typical electric candelabra, one you would see in every window at this time of year.
To me, however, it was the crowning piece. Seven lights shone out into the cold winter darkness, little stars among the dancing snowflakes. Such a small comfort against the vastness of the night, and yet those blue-framed stars were something much stronger than the encroaching darkness. They were the promise of home nestled among the wonders of night and the beauties of winter.
We crossed the main road and entered the side road which passed by the blue-framed white house. The night came closer for a short while as we passed between streetlights, but what emerged in the next island of orange was a mountain of snow. It had been built up during the day by the snowplow, and it towered above me as a sharp peak rising into infinity.
I immediately began climbing it, scrambling for a grip on the snow and ice. The powdery snow fell into my gloves and into the collar of my overall, burning me with cold, wet ice. My little boots sunk into the mound, but found enough solid footing that I could make my way to the top before long. Panting, I reached the summit of my little mountain, and with a sense of pride and power I straightened myself and gazed at the world below.
I saw the dome of the night stretch out over the rooftops; I saw the orbs of orange glow in the distance; I saw the snow-covered path which leads to the school. Beneath me were my parents, standing at the foot of the mound. I felt as if I towered above them like some strange mountain king. I saw, everywhere, the glittering snow and the shining lights on every street and in every window.
On unsteady legs, I raised my head to the sky above and saw only the unending void and its countless worlds of snow. Time had ceased. There was only the night and the snow, and the little watcher who saw and mourned every passing speck of white which lived and died that night. The snow fell onto my brow and cheeks, melting down my face, and as the wind blew across my face I closed my eyes for a moment. Wiping my brow, I took a step back to steady myself against the gale.
But my foot found only open space. I fell backwards off that white mountain, and I knew then that I would die. I had gazed so long at the dancing snowflakes that I had left my earthly life and joined them to live and die in a moment of descent. The abyss had swallowed the little watcher; now there was only a vast snow-swirling night playing out its solemn game. My heart hung in my chest; my body fell among the snowflakes. And then I died.
Landing onto my back in the soft snow, I was not sure at first that I was okay. I laid there for a few moments, felt no pain, and accepted what had happened. The snow still danced before me, the night was still there and the oranges of home still lit my island in the night. The little watcher had not died; no little world in the great abyss ever did. Instead the dance continued, every little speck joining the great sea of white, where now lay a young boy, wondering for the first time about the passage of the ages, and the dance of life.
From the swirling abyss came an angel. She looked down upon me, the face of a young woman with snow in her hair.
My mother.