Snow has a distinct way of falling when sorrow is in the air. The air always seems heavier, fuller and even more of an obstacle than before. I remember one such time, watching a tragedy befall an innocent man who just wanted to go home. He looked married, full of life and looking forward to the dinner which he held in the brown bags cradled in his arms. He was not a young man by any stretch. Indeed, the wear of years shown on the grey in his beard and the full bulge of his jacket around his belly. He walked with a brisk pace, headed to what appeared to be home. Head bowed and shoulders up he met his fate.
The sirens were loud in the quiet that followed.
And after that, the snow kept falling. Slowly, purpousfully covering the spot of tragedy. Wiping clean the slate that is life and filling in the gaps of memory, burying what once was with white nothing.
This is life.
I look towards the sky and there is nothing but the disappearance of what is and the replacement of what should be.
The snow keeps falling.
The snow keeps falling and the cold will soon consume me.
This is life.
This is the gift that disappears too quickly.
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2 comments:
Damn Noah, you are a good writer. But what happened to the man?
Well, the truth is there never was a man. I did this piece in response to a Defining moments essay where the writer drove by the scene of a wreckage where a little girl had died from a Ford Truck coming through her window.
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