The Snowflake

The snow fell softly over the grey city, dancing from one treetop to the next, like ashes or alien creatures invading the night. In the distance the factory light shone like a frozen bomb halfway to destruction, creating a snow globe of tranquil malice. If you held your breath you could just hear the tiny sound of crystals colliding. If you breathed a heavy heat, you could see the lace melt and drip invisible droplets down from the miniature cloud.

The green radiator had knocked and clanked earlier in the day so that the entire building was full of its presence. Standing outside, I’m sure you could see the building, pale yellow eyes staring straight out at you, burning with a fever in the winter, and just above, a mirage. Horses danced near the edge of the roof with a fury. Inside the beast, we were all squirming, tossing, kicking blankets and propping windows. I was standing on the balcony looking over the calm, climbing the iron railing to cool my feet. You were leaning against a shelf, hand on hip. It was tropical. Sweat glistened on your forehead. Green palms grew out of the walls and quivered from elephant stomps. Somewhere down the hall a thousand ants were building a castle, brushing their feet against one another so fast, we thought we heard a stream. We ran to find hot, humid steam, bursting from the end of the white radiator, fogging the kitchen window.

The snow didn’t look so cold after all, just a million feathers drifting into the cracks of the sidewalk and nudging, sweetly, into the bark of the trees. If just one snowflake would land between an eyelash, behind the ear, on the ridge of the collarbone, and stay a while. Tell us about the cold, now we wanted to know.