The puffed snowflakes accumulated on the rooftop throughout the nights, seeping in through the cracks on the walls to brighten our dark home with its white. I walked out of the house and I breathed deeply, watching the cold wrap around my body and enchanting me with its mystery and wonder. I took in the scene that lay in front of me. The crisp snowflakes had settled on the dirt that lay on our house, warming it with the cold of its touch. Christmas Eve was a magical day in which children were able to feel special and loved. Covered in white innocence of snow, people were able to wash away their problems and enjoy time with those they loved the most. Why, it was John Jr.’s favorite day of the year.
He was a strong, well-built boy who ate as much as he could. He had meaty arms with a strong chest. His long, sturdy legs would serve him well when he went off to work in the fields next year. Hopefully, they would be sturdy enough to bring home a stuffed envelope to the joy of his parents.
Jr. sat across from me, sipping his hot cocoa with his face buried deep into the world that lay within the pages of his book. His brow was furrowed and his intrigued eyes barely visible above the thickness of the book. Around this time of year, he would always reread the same book I got for him a few years back, to his father’s great disappointment. “Books are for those who are too weak to make a life of their own,” John Sr. had once said. “A man has no need for books.”
John Sr. loved Jr. He saw a version of his fifteen year old self in Jr, a version of the strong, hard-working man he once was, but not the version of a book loving boy. He had a whole life planned for Jr. to follow, wanting his son to be strong and powerful. He just didn’t know a strong man also had to have a strong heart.
Sr. was out finding gifts for his son. He always said he was going to finish up some last minute work, but Jr. and I knew he wasn’t fooling anyone. He was a man of strict discipline and routine, who would spend every Christmas Eve finding a second-hand gift at the Sam’s Pawn Shop and later crossing the street to Uncle Bill’s bar where he would chug as many cold ones as he could until he and his childhood friends almost had to crawl out of the bar. Last year, he came home at three in the morning with a broken hammer he was going to give to Jr. Hopefully, this year would turn out better.
As I finished my hot cocoa, I walked outside to wash the dishes with the garden hose. My legs were sore and bruised from the hard days before, and it was difficult for me to walk outside in the snow with all of the dirty dishes from several days ago. The frozen dirt under my sandals crunched every time I placed my feet on them. I tried turning the hose on but water wouldn’t flow out like it usually did. Instead, the hose gave a high pitched shriek and finished with a grunt. The water must be frozen. I sighed and walked back into the house, looking back at the footsteps imprinted on the snow. They were pathetic, just leading back to Sr.’s dark and gloomy home.
As the sun crept behind the mountains in the distance, I decided to serve Jr. some dinner. I walked to the kitchen and got some porridge wrapped in cloth from the previous night. He gulped it all down and I had to send him off to bed with a half empty stomach. After all, tomorrow was the big day.
As the hours went by, I decided to go up to bed myself. Sr. wasn’t showing up and I was getting awfully tired. I crawled into the mat that lay on the floor, and closed my eyes, imagining the snowflakes falling all around me. I was in a field, a field so wide a sparse that there wasn’t anything else to be seen except for the field. The snowflakes were tickling my face, and I was laughing. My laughter was the only thing that was heard in the field, embracing the snow and giving it a life of its own. I opened my mouth and a small snowflake dropped right into it, refreshing me with its purity. Refreshing my mind and making me feel again. Feel something, feel anything.
I awoke and watched the puffed snowflakes accumulated on the rooftop throughout the nights, seeping in through the cracks on the walls to brighten our dark home with its white. I walked out of the house and I breathed deeply, watching the cold wrap around my body and enchanting me with its mystery and wonder. I took in the scene that lay in front of me. The crisp snowflakes had settled on the dirt that lay of our house, warming it with the cold of its touch. A hooded figure lay face down on the snow, which I cautiously approached. My legs were sore and bruised from the long fights of the days before, and it was hard for me to walk outside in the snow. I recognized the face immediately, as a smile almost creeped up on my face until a dark realization creeped into my mind. The person who laid immobile in the snow was holding a new leather-bound book covered in pure, white snow.