The First Snowfall

You await the season’s first snowfall.

Traditionally, this time of year is a welcome relief to you. You bask in the cool winter breezes, your lungs burning as they inhale sharp bursts of freezing wind. When it arrives, the season’s first snow — pure, white, clean — signals the start of a happy time.

Pure, white, clean…

You’re suddenly struck by the danger of these words. You cannot let your dreams of the past cloud your vision of the precariousness of the present. There is a precipice just beyond the horizon; unseen, yet towering; a reawakening abyss.

How can it be that the memory of snow is muddied by the waters of today?

Pure, white, clean…

Silence.

You’re transported back to the silence of the snow. A fresh blanket covers the lawn between apartment buildings lining the streets of your childhood neighborhood. You’re standing at the edge of the stairs leading onto the lawn. The snow drift is splashing upon the bottom three, or maybe four, steps. You’re covered head to toe in winter weather apparel. A pair of tiny yellow boots protrude from your snow pants and as you rub your knees together you hear the scrape of the fabric echo across the snow. A multi-hued winter cap is pulled tight across your scalp, its hem resting atop your eyebrows. A red scarf wraps around your face and neck, and as you breathe the air condenses into moisture against the scarf. You can feel the thin film of water against your lips. Your tiny fingers wiggle around in your gloves. In your right hand you hold a saucer, half as wide as you are tall. Your left hand swings in anticipation. The lawn is empty. White flurries fall from a grey sky.

You step across the stoop’s threshold. Your boots dig into the pure, white, clean lawn. Crunch, crunch, crunch. The snow compacts beneath your feet. It is two, no, three feet deep. You are no more than four feet tall. You stumble forward and land face first into the cold cushion. Rolling onto your back, you exhale, and wipe the snow from your face, pulling down the scarf to laugh. With your head resting against this natural pillow you look up and stare into the soft grey sky.

You remember the bliss of that lonely moment. You see yourself standing up and readjusting your cap. You are a solitary figure, drawing a path forward into the snow. And as you disappear behind the fog of grey mist and flurries, your footprints show no sign of fear that any precipice may be approaching. They are happily leading into obscurity.

You return to the present. There is no snow today. It’s warm in your neighborhood.

You anxiously await the arrival of the first snowfall. It has symbolized for you the beauty of solitude, and quiet reflection. It was purity — of mind, of body, and of soul. It cleaned the sins of the past year, covering them in a blanket of tranquility. Yet if 2015 has taught you anything, it’s that humanity’s sins cannot be quietly hidden behind a blanket of snow.

The precipice is still ahead, and we cannot wish it away. We will not have the luxury of stepping back to admire our footprints as they wander into the bliss of obscurity. The world today demands action.

For too long you have laughed off the ghost of bigotry haunting our society. you have avoided its gaze, comfortable in the tranquility of the pure, white, clean snow.

You are no longer the solitary figure looking to be lost in the snow.

“I venture the challenging statement that if American democracy ceases to move forward as a living force, seeking day and night by peaceful means to better the lot of our citizens, fascism will grow in strength in our land.”

— Franklin Delano Roosevelt, 1938