First Snow
By Roxanne Park
Age 11
Hanover, NH
Every first snow, Diana comes out to the same field. She loves this field. When the snow blankets the ground, it is always smooth, sparkling, beautiful. She loves this field because no one else ever comes here. No one knows about this place. Nobody. She loves this field because the silent beauty of it draws her to it.
Every year, with the first snow, Diana walks to her field, a thick, purple-patterned scarf wrapped ‘round her neck, matching mittens on her hands, and a fuzzy blue hat over her head. While her coat is different every year—red, green, blue—the scarf, the hat, and the mittens are always the same.
Diana stops when she reaches her field. She breathes in the chilled air, cups her hands around her mouth, and puffs out a cloud of steam. She watches it slowly fade to nothing, and takes a step forward. The sun makes the snow sparkle. She takes another step. And then another. As she reaches the middle of the field, Diana looks back at her footsteps in the snow. She can see the twelve, thirteen, fourteen prints that she made. Footprint. Footprint. Footprint. Being satisfied, she lies down in the snow and looks up at the clear sky.
For a while, Diana just lies there without a thought in her head. She follows her breaths: in, out, in, out, in, out. After a while, she loses count. Then, she closes her eyes and begins to swing her arms and legs, creating a snow angel on the ground. She can’t hear anything but the sound of snow, her own breaths, life, and the shuffling of her coat as she moves. When she stops shuffling, there is only silence. The silence is comforting, though.
Her movements gradually dwindle and finally come to a full stop. Diana opens her eyes and slowly stands up, careful not to ruin her perfect angel with fresh footprints. Stepping back a bit, she looks down at the angel. Satisfied, she walks away.
Each year, Diana makes more and more figures. She sometimes wonders: If she could uncover the snow from the field, would she find traces of her angels from the years before?
If it happens to begin to snow while Diana is in this field, she pokes out her tongue and sighs as the light flakes settle on her tongue and dissolve. If she is patient, she sometimes watches the snow cover her angels, erasing them a bit—limb by limb—until they vanish.
Diana leaves after a few hours, savoring the taste of winter. The air seems to be getting warmer; it turns a strange sort of sweet. She looks down to where her mittens should be, but she only finds snow. She smiles to herself. Then, with one last glance back at the snow-covered field, Diana turns away and begins the long trudge home.
Diana only comes here once a year, on the first snow. Why doesn’t she come every winter day? Is it the wonder of its beauty? Is it the sweetness of something new? We will never know, exactly. No matter. She will be here next winter. Diana never misses a first snow.
By Roxanne Park
Age 11
Hanover, NH
Every first snow, Diana comes out to the same field. She loves this field. When the snow blankets the ground, it is always smooth, sparkling, beautiful. She loves this field because no one else ever comes here. No one knows about this place. Nobody. She loves this field because the silent beauty of it draws her to it.
Every year, with the first snow, Diana walks to her field, a thick, purple-patterned scarf wrapped ‘round her neck, matching mittens on her hands, and a fuzzy blue hat over her head. While her coat is different every year—red, green, blue—the scarf, the hat, and the mittens are always the same.
Diana stops when she reaches her field. She breathes in the chilled air, cups her hands around her mouth, and puffs out a cloud of steam. She watches it slowly fade to nothing, and takes a step forward. The sun makes the snow sparkle. She takes another step. And then another. As she reaches the middle of the field, Diana looks back at her footsteps in the snow. She can see the twelve, thirteen, fourteen prints that she made. Footprint. Footprint. Footprint. Being satisfied, she lies down in the snow and looks up at the clear sky.
For a while, Diana just lies there without a thought in her head. She follows her breaths: in, out, in, out, in, out. After a while, she loses count. Then, she closes her eyes and begins to swing her arms and legs, creating a snow angel on the ground. She can’t hear anything but the sound of snow, her own breaths, life, and the shuffling of her coat as she moves. When she stops shuffling, there is only silence. The silence is comforting, though.
Her movements gradually dwindle and finally come to a full stop. Diana opens her eyes and slowly stands up, careful not to ruin her perfect angel with fresh footprints. Stepping back a bit, she looks down at the angel. Satisfied, she walks away.
Each year, Diana makes more and more figures. She sometimes wonders: If she could uncover the snow from the field, would she find traces of her angels from the years before?
If it happens to begin to snow while Diana is in this field, she pokes out her tongue and sighs as the light flakes settle on her tongue and dissolve. If she is patient, she sometimes watches the snow cover her angels, erasing them a bit—limb by limb—until they vanish.
Diana leaves after a few hours, savoring the taste of winter. The air seems to be getting warmer; it turns a strange sort of sweet. She looks down to where her mittens should be, but she only finds snow. She smiles to herself. Then, with one last glance back at the snow-covered field, Diana turns away and begins the long trudge home.
Diana only comes here once a year, on the first snow. Why doesn’t she come every winter day? Is it the wonder of its beauty? Is it the sweetness of something new? We will never know, exactly. No matter. She will be here next winter. Diana never misses a first snow.
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