My Mother

In 1982 the snow came

flakes fell

silently

heavy white feathers

my hot breath on the cold window

“each one is different”

my mother said

but there were so many and

for the first time

I doubted her

 

I woke the next morning

an unnatural glare straining

against my curtains

peeking through I found

the world changed

with dazzling

purifying

white

 

We had days of snowballs

created armies of snowmen

felt icy tendrils slide down our backs

and never were tired

until our heads touched our pillows

 

In 2018 the snow returned

my hot breath on the cold window

the snowflakes burning brightly

as they fell

through the porch-light

my phone rang

I answered

“each one is different”

said my mother, eighty years of her

“I know”, I said.