Snowdrops

My grandchildren have left the door open. They have long since disappeared into the snow dusted pine trees, but here I still am watching the snowfall through the doorway from my armchair across the room. The darkness of this old, rickety cottage lit by candles is the perfect frame to that rectangle of perfect white.

I remember what it was like to be young in the winter. All that excitement of throwing pebbles on frozen lakes to watch it crack and splinter. All the time spent on building the perfect snow man and the anger at my brother for always knocking it down. I should've wasted less time being angry, but when you're that young you don't know one day everyone will be gone.

The floorboards creak as I push myself off the old chair which will house dents the shape of my body long after I am gone. My thin, dappled hands trace the furniture as I hobble towards the door. I used to walk fast as rain, but now I am slow as snow fall.

As I step out into the snow the wind starts to tussle my hair. With only my cardigan draped around my shoulders anyone would tell me to go back inside but the coolness warms my soul. I reach a shaky hand up and watch as snowflakes drop into my hand and, with a twinkle, turn back into water. As we all must do.

I am at peace.

Everything dissolves into a dazzling white.