They never told me I would love the snow.
It turns dark to light, illuminating once-frightening places.
“Your hair is like the stars,” she says when I step towards the approaching bus.
I startle and frown, not understanding.
She gestures to my hair, the over-long tresses adorned with fat flakes. A smile curves her lips.
“Oh!” I touch fingertips to my hatless head. I am flattered without knowing why. “I suppose.”
Halifax snow is a bucket, more Poseidon than Jack.
Edmonton snow is a feather. It lands soft on shoulders and brushes off with a flick.
I expected to fear the sky. It’s too large, to limitless, too wide.
The Maritimes were a reprieve with their hills and trees.
They were an escape, a place too hide.
The Prairie is open, flaws bared for all to see. I feel self-conscious, unprepared.
Like I am giving a speech and forgot my notes.
I dislike how it is too bright, too blue, too uncovered.
Clouds feel safe, warm, protective.
But now there is snow and the sky is my friend. It sparkles and floats and charms.
It shows me the way and covers my flaws.
The snow here is cold, colder than I expect.
It doesn’t melt when touched and squeaks rather than crunches.
It is likely I will lose a few toes before winter is done.
But I won’t mind, as long as it snows.