Black Snow

Looking back, a snowfall of any sort was a big deal when I was a kid. It arrived, often unexpectedly, then, just as quickly, it would be gone. For that short period, however, everything was beautiful and seemed perfect. Maybe it was the rarity of it or maybe it was the fleeting nature, but it was a special event. Maybe it was seeing it through the eyes of child, unfettered by the worries and responsibilities of an adult life.



Things seem so different now. Having lived through winters where the ground practically disappears for weeks or months at a time and the annual snowfall is likely greater than the combined snowfall of any place I lived for the first 20 or so years of my life, I no longer look at snow with wonder, but with a contempt bred of familiarity. When the first snow begins to fall, it is still beautiful, but the reality of life quickly sets in and before long, what was once pure and pristine is ugly and dirty from wheels and plows. Whatever snow life can't push out of its way gets driven over and ground down. The once white snow is a dingy gray-black that collects on the undersides of cars and on the soles of shoes. Its stubborn refusal to melt allows us to see only a tarnished image of what snow has become rather than what it truly was. The excitement of snow has worn off and everyone begins to long for Spring. But still it stays.



In the end, the rains come and melt the snow and wash it all away. And all that is left is a memory. A memory of that first moment when the snow falls and everything is beautiful and perfect again.