Dead Snow

The relationship lived and died in winter, born when the sun made the pristine snow glitter like gems flecking a magic white blanket covering Boston in a reverent, heavy silence. I was from New Orleans and had never seen snow. Garrett introduced me to the angels you make, the hot chocolate you spike with Irish whiskey, the icicles hanging from the skeletal trees like stalactites hanging in a cave. You can shoot them with BB guns, sending them crashing silently into the magic snow blanket. I learned to love it all, along with the chapped lip, chattering teeth kisses and finally, the lovemaking under thermal blankets in the meat locker cold apartment.

I couldn’t live without Garrett. I knew I loved him more than he loved me. I begged and cajoled him to stay, to love me, to never leave me, but his heart grew as cold as the snow. He cheated, of course. And was leaving, of course, and I had no choice but to stop him.

My tears as I stopped him were watery and weak like Boston’s winter sun. But winter trudges toward spring, when the Boston snow hangs on in little patches peppered with dirt, honeycombed, and pitted, resolute but bound to fade away. Like Garrett, who faded after I stabbed him in the heart with a stalactite icicle. Then dumped his body in Boston Harbor with the offending weapon that would melt now and never be found. Gone with the snow.

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