Week 38: First Snow

 Type of Writing: Written like a response to a GCSE English Language question 5: 'Write a story about a snowy day as suggested by this picture.'

The snow got lost in the post and has arrived today, a month late. I’m dreaming of a White Christmas sang Bing; well, it’s been a rough year, January will do. As it falls from the sky, the past unspools before him. He recalls his infancy of running and falling and laughing as the snow caught his fall. The teenage years and the local radio announcement: ‘St Michael’s Catholic High School has just announced it too will also be closed today.’ And adulthood where the headteacher’s e-mail declares the site is unfit for work, provoking a minor earthquake as teachers collapse celebratorily, simultaneously, back to bed.

For him the snow was magic. Only tied up with happy memories of days off and days out. Hot chocolate indoors and snowballs outdoors. Other than hand holding and turning on the tele, is there a better use of hands? So the snow comes down. At first, it’s just a light dusting. The kind of thing a baker might do with a brownie. In time though, the bottom falls out of the sieve and it drops down like a dump truck. Soon the rooftops, roads, pavements and plots are blanketed. The cake of the outdoors has been marzipaned and he can’t wait for his feet to bite into it.

But what makes this snow extra special is a baby that watches from the window. The child looks out and can’t quite register what it is. He has been in this world for nearly nine months; he’s experienced most weathers. The heatwave of August. The wind of October. The rain of November. The brrr of December. But what on earth is this? He looks at snow in the same way an adult from LA would: as though it were hallucinatory, dream-like- something that can’t be real. A blink hundred times to check you’re not imagining, that your head is screwed on, not been overturned and
rendered senseless.

The boy’s mother couldn’t be more excited. She loves firsts when it comes to this boy. First smile. First laugh. First meal. First drink. (It’s alright he had a fingernail of fizz at Christmas, isn’t it?) And now this his first snow. She wraps him like a pass the parcel, layer on layer, outfit on outfit. I’m Kit James Raj Theivamanoharan, could I be wearing any more clothes? Her smiles grows broader as he does too under the weight of the clothes. The man from earlier has joined them now; he’s finished his marking to the backdrop of the described scene. He joins them at the bottom of the stairs, and smiles.

His wife is bobble hatted and duffle coated like a winter model. His son is Kit of the Antarctic ready to lead an expedition to the coldest of climes. Mum and dad are giddy with excitement. Engagement smiles. Wedding day smiles. Baby born smiles. Smiles only reserved for special occasion. For the snow is magic. The boy is about to be inducted into the magic circle. To be part of an exclusive group of children around the world who can turn weather into play. They kiss their son all over. He screws his face like a lemon, then beams like an orange. The mum carries him to the back door and throws it open.

Out the living room wardrobe, they’re in Narnia. No, dark underbelly here though. This is as pure as an angel. A snow angel. Their humble garden has been transformed into a field of dreams. The place of adult pastime has become a child’s playground. They laugh at the sky, at each other, at their little boy.

And then they wait.

Wait for the magic to take hold of him. Like a pint of Guinness, it just needs a few minutes. It’s a new experience. Just allow it to settle. Be patient, the wonder will arrive. Just a little longer and they’ll see it. They’ll see that furrowed brow unfurrow. Unfair to expect a baby to throw themselves into a new experience. Everything is an adjustment for them. Witness, recognise and immerse is how it goes with young children. We’ll see a smile soon. The pint has been poured. The foam very much sits on top. It all looks very delicious.

In desperation the parents throw the boy up into the air. No smile.

In desperation the parents bounce him through the grass. No smile.

In desperation the parents put a fingertip of snow on his nose. No smile.

No smile.

The boy really couldn’t give a shit.