Dreams of Snow
Written by: Lillie
"When will the snow come?"
"Soon, my child, soon."
Wistful smiles. Gentle peace. Calm heart.
"I dreamed of the snow last night."
Quiet.
"The flakes fell gently."
Images of snow covered houses against a dark, soft sky.
A sad smile. A pat on the frail hand.
"The snow will come soon."
A wistful smile. A comfort from that frail hand.
"I hope so."
Light eyes of depth scan the worn face.
"You are tired, dear mother. Rest."
"I am of good health."
"You have much to do."
Pause. A gaze at the gaunt face.
"I do."
A glance at the grey twilight.
"I will wait for the snow."
A silent prayer for the thin child.
"I will not go before the snow comes."
A reassuring smile. The worried heart is not reassured.
"I hope not."
A silent prayer that the child will not go before the snow comes.
A silent prayer that the snow will not come.
---
"I dreamt of the snow last night."
Quiet.
"The snow had finished falling."
"You have many dreams of snow, my child."
"Yes."
Weariness.
"Is that all you wish for?"
"Yes."
Sorrow grips the worn heart.
"And when you get it, you will go?"
Uncertainty. Truth is more painful than lies. Truth prevails.
"Yes."
"You will not stay for me?"
Heartbroken look.
"I would stay for you, if I could."
Tears.
"I cannot."
"Why not?"
"I cannot tell you why."
Shaking head.
"Why not, why not? Why can you not tell your own blood mother?"
"I love you, mother."
Shaken.
---
Watching the sky.
Quiet.
Hurt.
Watching the child.
Memories.
Love.
Forgiveness, mixed with hurt.
Bittersweet.
"Are you waiting for the snow?"
Startle.
"No."
Fear.
"What are you waiting for?"
"An answer."
"To what?"
"To why me."
"You?"
"Yes. Why it has to be me who leaves."
Frustration.
"Why me who am bound by all I hold and treasure not to breathe a word to a soul of what I know?"
Hurt.
"Why me who cannot tell my own mother why I cannot say why I can only stay until the snow comes?"
Pain.
"Oh, child."
A warm hug.
A cling.
An embrace.
Never wanting to part.
---
"I dreamt of the snow last night."
"What did you see?"
"Peace."
"Peace?"
"Joy."
A look.
"Happiness."
Eyes cast down.
"Forgiveness."
Eyes look up.
"Gentleness."
"That was all in the snow?"
"Yes."
"Snow is not cold, mother."
"What is it then?"
"Snow is not white."
"It is grey."
"No. It is pure and gentle. It forgives all it touches. It softens what it can."
A sigh of defeat. A smile of acceptance.
"It is why I named you after the snow, my child."
"I know now."
"How did you?"
A loving shrug.
"Have I failed you?"
"No. You have made me proud."
"I am glad."
Smile of weary rest.
---
No more dreams of snow.
In the night, the snow had fallen.
In the night, her breath had slipped away.
In the night, the child was gone.
In the morning, snow covers the earth.
In the morning, a smile is on her lips.
In the morning, the memories remain.