snow

(assignment for English class)
If raindrops are the 
tears of those dead, what is
snow, you wonder? It is
magic, sometimes: 
bringing spice into an 
artist's world with ice,
frost covering blood-red 
berries the color of your 
older sister's lipstick she
bought at a spa in
NYC, and 
small dots of white that cover the boring
shades of brown and green
earth that you're used to.
It is
a nightmare, sometimes:
too much of it traps you 
inside and freezes your 
water supply, heavy storms
with thick clouds that never end
roll into your small town
and turn the blue sky and the
nighttime skyline that you love
so dearly to an 
abyss of white, and frigid 
temperatures that make you think of
those without homes. 
Today, you have the 
good kind of snow: soft and
beautiful. It is late,
past midnight and you are 
still going home. But you
don't live in this town. You 
don't have a designated home
anymore, so you walk the 
abandoned streets and think. The
echoes of children screaming
with nothing but pure delight
follows you around; the footsteps
of those who have walked this path before
are now frozen into the ground, a
perfect snapshot of how we 
are not alone in this world. The wind 
throws your hair in front, behind, and
all over your face, but you
don't mind. You never were one for
ponytails or 
braids or 
anything like that. Your
feet are frozen and 
you can no longer tell one body part
from another, but some part of your
brain keeps you walking, keeps you
alive. The 
soft flakes start to fall again, 
sticking to your thin hoodie and
tangling your hair. You 
should find shelter, because 
good people do exist. Sometimes, though, 
you don't want to believe that
anymore. So 
you keep walking, a 
single person in the world, and
hope the snow stops so
no one will see your 
fresh footprints etched into 
the frozen ground, hear your
screams from earlier in the day
that still make your throat sore, know
who you are.
Sometimes, it is better to be
no one.