The First Snowfall

by S.R. Adams

Snow falls with a sound like nothing you've ever heard before. The air becomes still, heavy and then there is a soft, soothing shush. It muffles all other noise, wraps you in its silence as the flakes gently coat the ground. It is seductive, this soft, quiet hush that covers the landscape. At night, it is even more beautiful.

The lights of the city become trapped in the low clouds that bring the snow, giving the darkness a pale yellow glow. You walk, scrunching, sliding down the sidewalk, feeling as if you are in another world. A cold, soft, shimmering silent world, one where you are utterly alone. The chill has changed to a bitter breeze--it bites at your face, slices deep into your bones, every step an agony. You look for shelter, an oasis out of the wind, somewhere to rest and regain your strength.

You find a wind break, a small spot out of sight of passersby. You pull the clothes around you tightly, hugging your knees, covering your nose so your breath warms your face. The soft noise of the snow keeps you company as the shivering stops and sleep sets in. The beautiful blanket of winter begins to drift over you, tucking you into its warmth, relaxing your body as you drift off into sleep. They find you in the morning, dead underneath a snow drift, another casualty of the streets. There is no color guard to accompany your coffin, no twenty-one gun salute to mourn your passing, no bugler to play taps and announce you to the afterlife. Just another street person put into an unmarked, lonely grave. Another unknown soldier on Veterans Day.

S.R. Adams is an aspiring writer, military veteran and housefrau who is currently being held hostage in the midwest U.S.A. While caring for her hubby, two kids, two budgies and one cat, she counts the days until the summer of 1999, when freedom will be granted in the form of living in North Carolina. Adams can also been seen hanging around WomensSpace, either as a host or as a guest.