It begins as a whisper.
A few tiny flakes whirling and twirling. The Boy and I (back when he was a little-B boy) called them snow fairies. I don’t mind this kind of snow. The light hangs like a pale scrim softening the sky. Eventally, the snow fairies become a pageant, the twirling, whirling becomes more boisterous, like happy children dancing, their wild hearts aflutter, while bubbles of laughter cling to their lips.
It is a glorious music, like the joyful tinkle of piano keys.
But it doesn’t last. The cloud cover chases the scant light away. Burlier snowflakes barge in like tipsy uncles with round cheeks tottering through a party. They stumble and fall one on top of the other at a steady…
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