Snow Blind

I'm currently reading The Wednesday Sisters by Meg Waite Clayton.  I inadvertently read the sequel, The Wednesday Daughters, first while on Christmas vacation, but enjoyed it so much I couldn't stop to wait until I could find this one.  So, backwards I went, finishing the second first, then finding the first at the library this week.

The "Wednesday sister's" encourage each other to chase their dreams of becoming published novelists through the sharing of weekly writing assignments.  Though only on chapter 6, I think it is a brilliant practice, and having dreams quite similar to these ladies, I have been inspired to participate.

Today, I took an object (our snow covered fire pit) and wrote this fictitious little ditty about it, imagining it would come somewhere in the midst of a novel I have yet to write.

Snow Blind (An Excerpt from a Novel I Have Yet to Write)

I take a deep breath and follow a single flake, the fluffiest I can spot, as it falls from the sky, floating gently, changing direction ever so slightly, and I flinch as it tenderly hits the window.  As if this miniscule cluster of ice could hurt me somehow, or even reach me through the protection of the door.  It’s absurd.  When did I become so jumpy?  

I follow another, determined to hold my gaze, like a child in an intense round of “Made You Blink.”  With another breath, I lose sight of the second, and then the third, my frustration surfacing.  The fourth attempt is a success.  The flake sticks to the window, and I hold fast, but still I am unsatisfied.

“Quit while you’re ahead,” I whisper to myself.  Willingly, I obey and abandoned my insanity, giving in to the need to simply capture a moment of rest here on the floor at the backdoor.

It isn't long before my mind wanders off again.  Staring out into this blustery, blowing snow is as mesmerizing as the dancing flames of a summer’s end fire in our backyard pit; the ones we built just before the chaos of fall swept in.  I remember the last one vividly.  Fire-roasted and kid-blackened hot dogs, your favorite potato chips, fresh scooped watermelon, and s’mores.  You all laughed and agreed; I make the best ones, even though I never eat more than the remnants of melted chocolate and marshmallow sticky on my fingers.  I’d found the perfect ratio of graham to marshmallow to chocolate, made most efficiently for enjoyment at just the right ooey-gooey temperature.  Not too hot.  Not too cold. 

I catch myself smiling again at the very silliness of my own nonsense and obsessive behavior.  A perfect s’mores recipe? 

But it was a good night.  With the kids tucked snug in their beds, we enjoyed the fire’s last embers and a beer in our comfortable silence.  My hand in yours, you led me from the dying warmth of the fire to the kindling & passion of our bed.

A tear slides down my cheek.  That poor fire pit seems to have disappeared beneath more than just the two feet of snow now stifling its glow and memory.   As my mind drifts like the tumbling snowflakes, I wonder how we got here.  And how do we find our way back when we’re both wandering lost and snow blind?