A memory of snow

It had been a few days since the last snow. The sidewalks were passable again and the snow was turning the color of, well, that color snow turns when it's been exposed to the worst the city can throw at it for the better part of a week. Grey, green, black, brown with suspicious yellow pits and assorted trash for good measure. City snow.

Frank hated it.

It got him in a bad mood just walking past it each day. By the time he arrived at the office, the day was nearly ruined and he had to fight the bile in his throat at the memory of all that frozen waste.

Frank remembered as a child, the snow always seemed so pure and fresh and clean. Sure, one avoided the yellow snow, but that was as bad as it got. Or as bad as he remembered.

Funny things, memories.

He remembered a lot of other things from his childhood that are, more or less, unchanged. The feel of sunlight on his cheeks, on those first warm days in spring. Mud between toes at the riverfront. Grass marks on elbows lounging on the lawn in the park. The sound of rain on the roof, hitting the copper vent pipe softly. Why should snow be different?

He found his thoughts returning to his childhood more and more these days. Nearing sixty years old and facing mandatory retirement soon, Frank was worried. Not so much about money, or anything like that, but that without the work, without that regular intrusion of the here and now in his life, he might lose himself in his memories. It had happened before.

Frank suspected that his memories were not like those of his co-workers and friends. Most people, it seemed, could keep their worlds separate. Memories were just that - something remembered, fondly or no, but still very much in the past. Not Frank's memories.

Once, he remembered too vividly a day at the river with his childhood friend, Marco. Dwelt a little too long on the luscious feeling of cool water and mud and laughter, and before he knew it, the downstairs neighbor was pounding on his door, and there was an inch of standing water on his living room floor. He'd had to move that time.

During a light summer rain a few years ago, he'd gotten caught up in the memory of a particularly bad storm that had frightened him as a child. The wind had howled that night and he'd run into his mother's room to curl up at her feet for safety. Frank was shaken from his reverie by the sound of shattered glass. The news the next morning had a segment on a micro-burst that had cause some localized damage. The weathermen were sheepish that they hadn't been able to warn anyone about the high winds, but excited to report on something new for once.

They were not always damaging, of course…random sunny days during the wet season, or cooling rain during a heat-wave. Once, he'd caused all the cherry trees along the river to bloom a full month early and more than one Indian summer was likely a result of a wayward recollection.

Funny things, memories.

Walking home from work in that grey, slushy morass, Frank let his mind wander, paying just enough attention to avoid traffic, and the worst of the detritus at his feet. He thought about the snow of his childhood. He remembered waking up with hoarfrost on the windowpanes. The sun-dogs dancing in the air as he rushed out into the cold with his brother to make shapes in the fresh white snow. Frost forming on their scarves wrapped around their mouths, the crisp smell of winter, anise, cinnamon, wood smoke. He'd go find Marco later and they could play on the hill.

Turning up the walkway to his apartment, he turned and looked behind him. The fresh snow had purified the city. Burying its ills in a layer of clean white so thick that it more closely resembled a wedding cake than a city street. Frank smiled, and climbed the stairs, fumbling a little for his keys. Sitting in his favorite chair after lighting a fire, and putting on the kettle for tea, Frank relaxed and closed his eyes.

Maybe retirement wouldn't be so bad. He always has his memories.