Snow in the Morning
I wish you could see me now, as I sit here. I have taken the duvet to the sofa and sit in the warmth under its cover, while I look out the window towards the river. My favourite mug is in my hands with the earl grey tea that always reminds me of Sweden; of drinking it inside the cabin on a slow, quiet Saturday, or sitting on the veranda an evening in July as twilight falls and cools it in the mug.
Yesterday for the first time since I moved here three years ago snow fell. It rained most of the afternoon and as the evening cooled, so did the raindrops, turning them into big, soft flakes whirling in the air towards ground, as a wind swept over and shook the trees on the riverbank. In the harsh light from the lamppost standing outside our bedroom window, I saw the snowflakes illuminated in the darkness, how the wind pushed them around before landing on the pavement and grass underneath, where first they melted and later, remained as a thin, then thicker layer on the grass.
We went out for a little bit and stood in the cold as the snow fell; the thick flakes of white landed in my hair, where they melted and dripped down my neck, as I went back inside the warm flat. It made me miss home a little bit but also made me grateful that it’s not cold enough for snow here most of the time. I’ve forgotten how it penetrates you, the cold.
When I woke this morning, I had expected it to have melted but it still lay on the bit of grass next to the river and on the field behind the trees. Now, as I drink in the smell of bergamot in the steam rising from my mug, sleet started coming down again, and then it turned into snow. The flat is quiet and I have all my books here, my pages laid out in front of me to write, so it is quite cosy, you see. Almost as if I was back home.
Lea Elm, 2017