I wrote this one just a few days ago, on 1/26/13. I wondered exactly where it was coming from, since this doesn’t relate to my life at all so it’s entirely fictional (as is most of my writing).
I stood there, watching the snow fall. Everything else about the world fell away, and all that existed in that moment were me and the cold breeze with the white snow. It drifted, it blew. The snow danced elegantly and I could only stand and wish that I’d one day be so graceful. Childhood smiled on the few and frowned on the many, and mine doomed me to a lifetime of observing the world dance but never dancing myself.
Was there a point to any of this? I wondered. Life was simply a cruel trick, a game, played by the universe while the rest of us twitched and moaned for its amusement.
“Jasmine!” his voice called from the twisted hill he hurried down. “Come back inside, you’ll catch your death of this cold!”
His chastisement fell wrongly on my ears. I kept my attention on the swirling snow and ignored him as he came ever closer.
“What are you doing out here?” he demanded when he finally caught up to me. His hands gripped my upper arms in a tight grip that would surely leave bruises later. He shook me sharply, once. “Do you want to die?”
I looked blankly into his brown eyes, my breath vapor upon the wind as I exhaled carelessly. “What is there to live for?” I questioned. I wished he could give me hope, rouse me to live, but nothing could give me back what had been stolen from me.
He jerked back, emotionally stung from my blasé attitude about life and death. “’What is there to live for?’” he echoed, high on the emotional charge and getting steadily higher. “Me! Our children! Everything!” I could tell he wanted to hit me, but he held back. “Don’t you understand how precious you are to us?”
There was nothing I could say to him that would make him understand how I’d lost my soul when our youngest child died within me. I could no sooner make him understand that life was cruel any more than I could make him don a fool’s hat and dance a jig for my entertainment. Some things were just not possible, and making someone understand was one of them.
Infuriated by my silence, he roughly let me go and stalked back in the direction of our home over the hill. “Whatever, just come home when you get too cold to stay out! The kids need their mother to tell them a story and tuck them in!” he called over his shoulder.
I knew that I should feel something. Guilt, perhaps, at the thought that I might not have been the best mother I could have been. Instead, I stood there, watching the snow fall.