“I Am Made of Snow” by Kevin Richard White

I see you faintly in the terrain. You’re waving but I’m melting. I’m away from the sun, but my body has had enough of me and you’re singing to me as you catch all the big falling flakes. I’m water smoke. You see me drip and melt and vanish, but you don’t get anything to help me. You’re off key, as usual.

 

You still haven’t called. I’ve gotten drunk and beaten up, received a promotion, seen my parents, and went on vacation, and in all that time you still haven’t called. Maybe your phone was broken. Maybe you forgot language. Maybe you just didn’t care like I cared.

 

Smoke and snow, still melting. Sore muscles and an ulcer and my feet hurt worse than ever. All vapor and swirl and love, unsettled by your song.

 

I’ve accidentally saw a new picture of you. Same old smile, rolling blood and catching flakes and unearthing any weapon you can use against me.

 

 

Is there sense in talking? Is there point in volume?

 

 

You had put on some makeup before standing outside of my window. That’s not like you. Some ghost of you, chattering in ice-blue sinewy dark, reaching out, seeing me melt, seeing my bones go to cold water collecting on an empty floor. I’m waving for help but my hand is crooking and my head is tilting and nothing means anything anymore. We have become too many things.

 

 

Someone told me you got hired as some community outreach member. Apparently it’s a big deal but my blood is rolling and my feet hurt worse than ever. I can’t open the window. The snow is picking up and the doorbell is busted and I’m trying to yell but my mouth is all built up of snow.

 

I would have loved you so much better than those others. I would have probably said all the right words in the wrong order, probably would have forgotten some occasionally – but would have loved you so much better. Maybe you could have met my parents. Maybe they would have liked the fact that you give back to the community.

 

Why are you not made of snow?

 

I thought there would have been some sort of magic, some sort of fantastic space where we would have been able to hide from the world and figure out who we are and what we wanted to do. But you were something else, and I was born too cold.

 

I wanted a reaction. But I got a song instead. New mellow pain and missing pieces. I guess I’ll take any victory, no matter how lousy and low. It’s okay, though. Being lousy and low fits the bill.

 

So you’re now at the front door, crooning that terrible song still. I’m almost nothing but water, blurred by a swimming light. I cannot make a whisper; it’d be thin. You come in and glide past all the things we put in this house. Thrift store furniture, among other mistakes. At the edge of the stairwell landing, I feel you moving slow, twisting, cold from winter, preparing to make the final blow to take out this old drunken snowman.

 

You should be made of snow, too. After all, we got along very well.

 

You come into the same room as me after some time and I would give you a proper greeting but all this snow and all this everywhere is stopping me. I try to speak. But there’s nothing to say. I say, get me another Maker’s Mark, please. I have no legs. These could be my final words so please, I say, in a whisper fragile as ash. You’re wearing the outfit I like and your makeup is fresh and you’re not singing anymore. You’re just standing there, quiet. I imagine you’re about to say something but instead you show me your hands. You have a new tattoo, beginning at the palm and goes to the knuckle of the index. It looks cheap. But you do nothing else.

 

As long as it’s fifty degrees, snow can melt up to five inches every couple of days. It all depends on the moisture. It all depends on the wind. It depends how the snow is packed. I know that I wasn’t made properly. Do what you will, Earth. Make me gone before she does what she does. Please. If there is any mercy left in your reign.

 

You cup your hands at the edge of my feet and you collect water. You drink it. You’re thirsty and all I can do is try to tell you about my ulcer and everything else but you’re too busy lapping it all up and I’m nearing an end I never envisioned but probably should have.

 

When you’re done, there’s a music lingering that can’t be shut off. You’re standing above me and you’re licking your lips. You’re going to go back to your job, better than everyone else. I’m a little less than a puddle, like an insect you might shoo from your linoleum floor. I think I’m reaching out with a shaking hand but it’s only a collection of droplets you neglected. You kneel in front of me, your skin a shine I’ve only seen in late night thoughts. I manage a stumbling plea: you never did get that bourbon for me. You respond, dear, I gave you a better gift. A kiss goodnight, one I never gave you when you were here. You turn to go and the cold is swirling. At least give me a blanket, I slur. The cotton one we used to share.

 

You stand at the top of the stairwell, full of new energy and my water. No, you say. What do you need it for? You don’t need anything else now. You go and leave the front door open, leaving all inside to freeze. I can’t watch you walk down the street, but I can only guess you’re happy. A person leaves a pile of snow behind and there’s only so much that can be made of that. I’ll let you know in a little bit if I made out better than you did.

 

∞

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Kevin Richard White’s fiction appears in such places as Grub Street, Hypertext, The Hunger, Barren Magazine, The Molotov Cocktail, Door Is A Jar, Crack The Spine, Lunch Ticket and Ghost Parachute among others. He reads fiction for Quarterly West, Vestal Review and The Common. He lives in Pennsylvania.

Follow him on Twitter @MisterKRW