Reflective Natures

When I was born, it was dark, and I was alone.

Snow fell silently, as I howled tears for the slowness of passing time.

Then, one day I remembered.

A magnificent snowstorm, which created a winter-white world-but it was out of context. Before then, I had only been familiar with dark, murky shadows and hidden things.

My mother kept a pet tiger. I would often wake on a sheet-less, striped mattress, and the tiger would be on my bed, staring at me, with alien eyes, and strings of saliva dripping from a mouth full of sharp, yellow teeth to form a pool on my bed.

I still don't know if it was true, but logic tells me that it simply cannot be.

There was no tiger under the dark, weighty veil of plaster walls and wooden beams that appeared straight and level but felt bent and crooked.

There was, however, a photograph of a little girl. She has beautiful, auburn hair, and pale, lightly freckled skin.

She, I, was looking out of a rough doorway leading into the snow fort that I had built. I could have kept going, there was so much snow.

When I first crawled inside, I knew I would never want to leave. My lesson that day was about the reflective nature of snow on snow.

There was plenty of room. I wasn't even cold. A neighbor surprised me with hot chocolate.

I can see myself, in my mind, fifty years later. I was thrilled to the roots as I sipped my cocoa and then stretched out on the snow floor, giggling, and so light of heart that I had to kick my legs.

I had finally found a place in the light. No. I had created a space in the light. My neighbor gave me the photo, and it's one of few I have and my most favorite of all.

I'm center frame and beaming with happiness. I look like a real kid, and I feel like a real kid that entire day.

Dusk, eventually, ended my day. I tried to stay inside my ice cave. I hoped they would just forget about me, but then I was called away.