Winter's Compassion

(fiction)

By Arianna Rehak
Williston Central School, Grade 8

My mother gave birth to me when she was only seventeen-years-old, far too young to properly care for a child. Instead of putting me up for adoption, she decided to hand me over to her mother. Soon afterwards, she moved to Mexico, and I haven’t seen her since. My grandmother raised me like her very own, and she was truly the one and only in my life.

One of the things my Grandma and I had in common was that we both absolutely loved the winter season. Everything from the powdered snow, to the Christmas tree wreaths, we just couldn’t get enough of it. Our yearly tradition was to go into the forest behind our house and chop down a Christmas tree two days after Thanksgiving.

Later that day while hanging up ornaments, we would sip hot cocoa and listen to carols. She would always say to me “Molly, there are two types of people. People who love winter, and people who sit at home missing out on all the fun ‘cause they’re too busy complaining. Promise me you’ll never become that second type of person.”

I would always dutifully respond “Of course not! Winter’s the best season ever!” Little did I know that a few years later, I would break my Grandmother’s promise, and in a big way.

It was two weeks before Christmas, and I was getting ready for school. I stepped outside and immediately noticed the stormy weather. I could barely see 10 feet ahead of me. Upon stepping off of the front porch, I was knee-high deep in snow. I trudged up to the bus stop, (which took quite a lot of effort) and stood there for a few minutes.

Finally, my grandma came rushing out. “Hon, I heard on the radio that your school has a snow day today. Come on inside!” I jumped with excitement. I absolutely loved snow days.

I went inside and sat at the kitchen table. “What would you like to do today, darling?” she asked.
“Let’s bake cookies.”
“All righty, sounds good to me.” She pulled out her cookbook and searched for an appropriate recipe. “How about some good ‘ol fashioned chocolate chip cookies?”

“Yeah!”

She immediately began searching through cupboards to find all the needed ingredients. “Uh oh!” She exclaimed, “We’re out of butter.” I immediately felt glum. I really wanted to bake those cookies.

She smiled. “Don’t worry about it, I’ll go to the store and buy some. I’ll be back in 15 minutes.” She grabbed her coat off the hook, and was off. I found a stack of white papers and started to make snowflakes to decorate the house. I heard a strung gust of wind rush by. It reminded me of the ghosts we had seen in a haunted house during Halloween.

I opened the door and peered out. The storm looked much worse then before! I felt a shiver run down my spine. “Grandma will be back in 10 minutes and she can comfort me then,” I said to myself.

10 minutes passed by…then 30…then 60, but no Grandma. “Where could she be?” I thought. All the possible worst-case scenarios raced through my mind all at once. “Just shake off the feeling. She probably just decided to buy a full grocery load or something” I said to try and comfort myself, unsuccessfully however.

Finally, three hours later, I heard a knock at the door. I jumped up in excitement and relief. “She’s home!” I ran over and yanked the door open. “Grand-” But it wasn’t her. Instead, it was two policemen looking solemn.

What came next was all a blur. The two men sat me down, and informed me that my grandmother had gone off the road, and didn’t survive. At first, the words felt distant to me, as if it were all just a dream. This couldn’t be happening. Not to my grandmother, not to me. But it was.

The reality of what happened finally struck me to its full extent once I moved into my new foster home. I crawled so deep into myself, that I formed a protective shell around my emotions. I wouldn’t let anyone in. My new guardians, Jeff and Rachel, tried everything they could to get close to me, but I wouldn’t let it happen. In my mind, there was only one person I could love, and that was my grandmother.

After re-counting the events in my head, I came to an ideological conclusion. It was all because of winter. It if hadn’t been for that dreadful storm, the best woman I ever knew would still be with me. I “bah humbugged” anything related to winter. By the end of the year, I officially became that second type of person.

By the time I was thirteen, two years later, my foster family finally labeled me as “a hopeless case.” I would soon be sent to live in some other home. But I didn’t care; I never seemed to care about anything anymore. My grades were at their lowest, and I didn’t have any friends. What did it matter to me if I was still going to be miserable in the end?

A month later I met my new foster family.

“You’re going to absolutely adore this family. They’re a swell bunch.” This was my counselor trying to comfort me. She always had this frozen smile plastered on her face, so irritating in its insincerity.

When I didn’t answer, she sighed exaggeratingly.

“Honey, if you’re not going to talk we’re never going to get anywhere. We’re friends, right?” I laughed quietly. “Fine, you don’t have to talk if you don’t want to.”

Fortunately, we reached the house, and she changed the subject. “We’re heeeeeere!” I looked up, and was dumbfounded. The house was humongous, almost the size of a mansion. But even more surprisingly, there were tons of Christmas decorations up. Colored lights around the windows and trees, a lit up Santa Claus on a sleigh with reindeer, a wreath hung on the door, and various other things.

We walked up to the house, and she beckoned for me to knock on the door. I sighed, and banged three times. A gorgeous woman stepped outside and gave me a big hug. Her smile was broad, and refreshingly genuine. She wore light blue jeans and a pink and green sweater. “You must be Molly,” she said.

I hesitated. Should I respond? “She’s just shy!” my counselor hastily exclaimed, awkwardly laughing. “Give it a few days, and everything will be normal. I’ll go get her stuff!” She went to her car, brought me my suitcase, and drove off.

“So,” my new guardian said, “Why don’t you come in? No sense in us standing outside in the cold.” She led me inside, and I took an extensive look around. The interior was as magnificent looking as the outside. The furniture looked tasteful, the walls were decorated with paintings that fit the color scheme, and the large windows were accentuated with curtains.

“My name is Rita. My husband Mark was very disappointed he couldn’t be here to greet you, but he’s at work. We have a seven-year-old daughter named Erica, but she’s at her grandmother’s house. You’ll meet them both in an hour.”

I wanted to reply, tell her I loved her house, or that I was excited to be here, but the words just didn’t seem to come out. I wasn’t nicknamed “Mute Molly” in school for no reason. It was nothing personal, I just refused to talk to anyone. “Would you like to see your room?” I hesitated, and then nodded.

Forty-five minutes later, I heard a man’s voice go “Hello?” Rita and I were in my room and she was helping me unpack and get situated.

“Mark, we’re upstairs in Molly’s room!” Rita yelled. Footsteps up the stairs, then Mark came into the room. He was just as good-looking as Rita. Following him came their daughter Erica. They both smiled at me.

“You’re big. Are you a teenager?” Erica asked.

“Honey it’s rude to ask questions like that,” Mark said

“I was just curious, but I’ll stop.” Silence for about 3 seconds…“Are you wearing make-up?”

As I soon came to find, whatever I lacked in silence, Erica certainly made up for with her constant “jibber-jabber”. She would go on and on about some random topic. Once, Rita made the mistake of asking her how her day went. After her story, I came to the conclusion that Erica only took a breath every ten minutes. But the strangest thing about it all was that I actually kind of enjoyed her talking. Some of the things she said were so amusing. As much as I hated to admit it, I was actually growing fond of the girl.

“Molly, have you ever made a snowman before?” Erica asked while she was drawing a picture of Frosty. I nodded. “Me too. Last year I made a mommy, a daddy, a girl, and a dog. But then when spring came, they all melted. That’s what happened to Frosty. Gosh, I wish I could build another family…” It was clear that she was hinting towards me bringing her outside. Just then, Rita walked in with her laptop in her hands. “Mommy, Mommy!” She said, “Can we go outside and build a snowman?”

“I can’t right now, dear. Why don’t you ask Molly if she would like to?” Erica gave me the puppiest of puppy dog looks, topped with her sweetest smile, and I was a goner. I felt compelled to go. We put on our snow gear, and went outside into the cold. After half an hour, we had built the best looking snowman on the block. “There,” I said, adding his top hat, “he’ll be the best looking bachelor on the block.”

It was a few days before Christmas, and we were all in the town square for the seasonal festivities. I very reluctantly decided to go after several pleadings from Erica. I swear, she was a pro manipulator, and only at seven-years-old! I hated to admit it, but I was actually enjoying myself. The place seemed magical. The decorations were vibrant, and the sweet scent of maple sugar wafted through the air. As we sat in the park eating candied walnuts, and listening to a group of carolers singing “Silent Night,” Erica smiled up at me, and reached for my hand. I gave it to her, and I immediately felt a warm fuzzy tingle run through my body. For the first time in two years, I finally felt like I was part of a family.

When my Grandmother died, I had given up two important things in my life: My love for winter, and my emotional openness. That night in the park, I felt a strong love towards Erica, as if she were my own sister. However, my fondness for winter didn’t come back all of a sudden; it came slowly.

What I have now realized is that winter represents to me love, compassion, and happiness. So did my grandmother. When she died, it was as if all those things in my heart died with her. But now, I finally feel these emotions again. All the things she taught me growing up, I’m now teaching Erica. My grandmother’s body may have died, but her soul never will. Her spirit was contagious, and will spread through generation after generation.