Saturday Walk in The Snow
“This is hard,
” I say, pathetically. The hill is steeper than I thought. Plus, I'm thirsty. And I'm wondering, on a scale of 1 to 10, how socially awkward it would be for me to stop and eat some of the freshly fallen snow.
“We can turn back,
” he says. He's always more compassionate than I; I would have just said,
“Suck it up.
”
I point forward breathlessly.
“No,” I say. “I want to make it to the stream.
”
Steps later (trudges, really), we arrive. In warmer weather, this particular stream looks to me as though it has been plucked out of a museum. It's Nature's finest display of what perfect photo backdrops Earth is capable of creating.
Today, it's even prettier than it has ever been. Water trickles beneath a ceiling of frozen summer days, which has a crystalizing effect that amplifies the beauty. It's summer, spring, fall, and winter all in one.
We stand and admire it: the entire scene. The stream, the trees, the snow, the quiet. The sound of the running water. Speaking of which, I am still thirsty, and stopping here has made me even more aware of the white, fluffy, potentially refreshing stuff that surrounds us.
What if I were to eat it, seriously, I ask myself. Would he think it was childish, maybe? Weird, at the very least?
Even if he thought it, I really don't think he'd say anything. And, I mean, he has seen me at my worst: we are getting married, after all.
But what would he really be thinking? His parents have just departed from visiting us, and while they were here we did grown up things like drink wine and nibble on cheese and talk about fiscal cliffs.
So what would it be, now, to eat snow? Even if he wasn't going to say something, what would he be thinking?
This back and forth about how such an action might be perceived tick tocks in my mind for a moment or two, but, soon it's out of my control I feel one of my hands slip a musty mitten off of the other.
The exposed hand plunges into the powdery goodness of a roadside snowpile near the pristine stream.
It melts in my mouth. It's solid and liquid all at once. Refreshing. Better than any glass of water anywhere ever.
It's wonderful.
A moment passes and I wonder if I should say something like,
“Sorry, you are marrying a child. It was indeed immature and possibly gross of me to eat snow off of the side of a road, but I just couldn't help myself, I was thirsty, and...
”
Oh, maybe I should just say nothing.
I look to the sophistocated snow-covered woods: The frosted trees are poetry in frozen motion. As I admire their regal stillness, I wonder who will say what next, or what he's thinking. Of me, or about anything.
But, then,
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as in one swift move, his hand plunges in and then reaches up toward his mouth. And just like that, he too takes a bite/sip of this silent, icy, beautiful afternoon.
“Man,
” he says with a happy sigh.
“I really love eating snow.
”
I smile, and take another bite, and then so does he.
And it's refreshing; all of it.
Better than any glass of water,
anywhere, ever.
