Some people like snow and some do not. Those who do appreciate the illusion it creates. These are the folks who want to crucify the first person to step in the snow and ruin its serenity. Then there are the folks who don’t appreciate this illusion. These folks are indignant that this earthly wonder has cast a shadow on all their life’s realities; they try to destroy the illusion with snow plows and shovels. Either snow makes you smile or snow makes you boil. I’m an escapist, I love the snow. Shut down the world for all I care. Disrupt the status quo. Fuck normalcy.
Across from me in Denny’s sits a silent Asian family of four. Across from them sits a nearly silent, save for the man and a couple of suppressed giggles, Middle-Eastern family of four. My waitress is Latino. It’s the first snow of the season. I have with me Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky, my laptop, a phone, a glass of water, and a plate of pancakes is forthcoming. This first snow of the season is different for me than past snows. It’s almost as if the chemical composition has changed to something other than what it’s been my entire life. It now sticks immediately, it inhales like oxygen, it feels like happiness melting on my skin. Maybe my skin is happiness melting on the oxygen.
When did we first meet, snow? My earliest memories of you exist in the first house I ever lived in. Before I’d moved 10 times, before things changed from what they were to what they are; before the illusion of knowing what was right and what was wrong was lifted. At this house we had a long, steep driveway that led out to the street. If it snowed even a half-inch we did not wait. In Washington we learned the snow might not last a single day. You must take the chance immediately. We tore sides off oversized cardboard boxes, dumped the garbage out and used the bag, procured old laundry baskets; anything big enough to sit on became a sled. We took that half-inch of snow and made hundreds of feet of smiles.
The television in Denny’s is playing football replays, it’s snowing on tv too. Is it snowing everywhere?
I’d like to choose these memories to be the ones where I remember my oldest brother being carefree with us but the truth is all my memories of him are colder than snow itself. The time he hit me on my birthday and made me cry in front of my friends, donned the terrifying werewolf mask and cornered me in a dark room, gave me a lighter as a gift of reconciliation after disappearing from the face of the Earth for four years. Or the chances he simply chose to opt out of being a part of a good memory. Such as the time he was supposed to be my other brother’s best man, but was instead our worst brother.
The Asian family has spoken less than fifty words. Silence and consumption. It’s still snowing. Non-traditional Christmas music should not be considered Christmas music at all. Christmas rock, especially. That’s just bullshit. To even think yourself worthy of being an artist played the same time every year with an original Christmas song is a bit presumptuous, don’t you think? Maybe not. I find the balance between tolerating Christmas music and enjoying Christmas music is terribly difficult to maintain. Seasonal fruit at Denny’s apparently consists of bananas and grapes. Pretty sure bananas don’t grow in Washington. Those suggestively-shaped buggers are tropical. I guess grapes are seasonal. I would’ve guessed I’d get apples.
I no longer need snow to last forever to satisfy me. As a child melted snow was worse than spilt milk. So much worse that tears didn’t even come when the snow melted away. No, a deep and serious depression blanketed me, filling the space the snow had. This year I’ve seen the flakes falling softly for only a few minutes and yet I’ve already had enough to quiet the hunger. That’s not to say that I wouldn’t like more, but I don’t need more.
I suppose this is indicative of a personal change. Happiness is not only real when shared, but temporary. Happiness is hardly worth the pursuit that its counterpart (contentedness) is. Happiness is elusive. Happiness is the carrot on a string. Happiness is a leaf in the wind. Happiness is an ice cube in Summer. Happiness is a joke. It even starts with “ha.”
The silent family has erupted in conversation. Fueled, apparently, by fried eggs, buttery biscuits, and syrupy pancakes. They’re now speaking in English. Now the waitress is not. They looked pissy before, but happy now. They crisscross between English and some foreign tongue. It’s like a broken translation machine. Nothing makes sense. Well, maybe not nothing, but I certainly know that everything doesn’t make sense.
If you’re wondering whether the original objective of my Denny’s outing was to get myself an Oreo milkshake, you’re damn right it was. The breakfast plate was only to delay the pleasure of the shake. I think it stopped snowing, but that’s okay. I’ve accepted the fact that snow doesn’t last forever. Everything melts. I just hope my shake doesn’t melt before it gets here. If nothing else, I need that to last forever.
In front of me lie the mangled remains of my pancakes, a melted butter ball, a single egg over-easy, a cup of syrup sitting in its own filth, and a bowl of untouched grapes. My fork is lying across the plate like the single shell at the crime scene that proves what occurred here was homicide, not suicide. I could really use that milkshake right about now.
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