Sunshowers

When your mother was young she loved the snow. Grasping at every perfect diamond white flurry, appalled at their disappearance in her palm. Later she showed me a perfect flake, resting on her hand, resisting her warmth long enough for her to brush it to the ground. “It’s saved.” she said. I’d seen her more satisfied but not often. That was around the time she left, and I always thought she believed I was akin to that little crystal of water and sky, discarded for the safety of anything else but her. I miss her terribly, but she made you and saved me, so there was nothing more I could possibly ask of her.

I thought of her every time it snowed, when it used to snow.