Falling Snow: A Story About Memory
by Michelle Kicherer
I remember the first time I experienced falling snow. I was standing outside a hotel in Chicago. It was February. We were both wearing many layers under our jackets because it was seven degrees and we were from California, and did not have legitimate coats. In our pathetic versions of winter apparel we shivered in front of our hotel, trying to figure out how to get a taxi to a university we were visiting. We laughed at a sign on the window front stating to Watch Out for Falling Icicles. How strange it was that icicles fell often enough in Chicago to warrant posting signs about it.
We walked up the street a bit, keeping an eye out for impaling daggers of ice. Then we felt it. I blinked hard several times and held both of my gloved hands out flat. We looked at each other smiling, then squealed like children. We took off our gloves so we could feel it better. It was snowing! Tiny little flakes of cold landed on our hands and faces.
I opened my mouth and looked up, letting the airy drops melt onto my tongue and cheeks. I tilted my head back more and squinted, watching them fall from the sky. It looked like a brighter version of space, snow drifting by like stars. What a strange feeling: tiny cold kisses all over my face.
I remember that day so clearly. How I laughed and felt like a missing piece of my life was fulfilled. And now here I stand in my kitchen, unsure of why I came in here. This morning I could not remember my phone number. Yesterday, I don’t recall what I did at all. Though I can remember everything about that first time snow fell on my face, my current self is escaping me, and it feels like I am missing pieces of my life. They are drifting away and I can’t seem to put them back into place.