snow writing
Glimmer By Sara Crowley
T
he falling snowflakes are tired and small, they float to the ground and dissolve on contact. What a wasted effort, Gina thinks. A poor show. She watches the tiny downward drifts from her lounge window; white on black. Palm to glass pane she feels condensation on her fingertips. She traces a heart, high school style, her initials, and his. Underneath she writes ‘Forever.’ ‘Bastard,’ she says. Predictable tears come, like they have every night since his death. He’ll be cold, she expects, and then puts herself right. She pushes out into frozen air, inhaling it deeply into her lungs. It feels cleansing, an oxygen, and
then spikier; a subtle pain that she welcomes. In the garden she listens how the snow muffles. Far away there are cars, people, life going on. Gina tilts her head to the sky, small dampness on her face, chilly patches of skin. The snow becomes heavier, bigger, more persistent. As she stands it begins to settle, on her, her lashes, her shoulders, her coat, and around her, on the lawn, the bird table, the bushes. The magic is how it transforms, how it blankets and softens and brightens. It brings strange luminosity as the ineffable dance between light and ice changes the mundane into truly beautiful. This is not enough, everything remains the same, Tom is still dead, Gina still alone. She shivers, and wants to go back into the warm. Small as that desire is, it is all she has.
Sara Crowley is the winner of Waterstone’s Bookseller Bursary and her novel in progress - Salted - was runner up in Faber/Book Tokens Not Yet Published Award. Her short stories have won prizes and been published in many lovely places including The Irish times, 3:A.M, Pulp Net, Neon, PANK, Fractured West, elimae, Beat the Dust, and FRiGG. She blogs at asalted.blogspot.com and appreciates you taking the time to read this.
Photos by Ben Ottridge
the snow edition ~ 37