Endless Snowflakes

Snow. It was the first word I learned. Loneliness. That was the second. The bone-chill of immense cold is everything. I cannot remember a time without the drifts that surround my meager wooden cabin. As if from a dream I recall there are other words. Sun. Warmth. Family. There might've been trees under those mausoleums of snow. I like to think there could be.

Every day there is the task of patching up the drafty spaces, huddling and waiting for the next quake. Completely unpredictable, I had learned to hold tightly to something solid. Utterly relentless to the point where sometimes they seem to be shaking me inside-out as well as downside-up. Each time, I must gather myself and right the furniture, rehome the lamps, and fix my life in the aftermath.

Then there's the music. It rumbles from the earth just before the world begins shaking and the snow resumes falling. In the tune rests a magnetism that calls me to do strange things. Leave my meager wooden cabin and sleep in the thousand thousand snowflakes. Imagine a spring of melt and something beyond the hard crunch of utter silence or musical convulsions. It is the cruelest kind of beauty.

I hear it now. It’s so lovely, it makes me want to die.

The snow is coming.

Inspired by the Terribleminds.com Flash Fiction Challenge: The Randomized Title Rears Its Head.