Snow

Catalogue of delights: 2

Snow: so much like sand. The way it clumps, every molecule hanging together, shaped by the objects it falls on, are nothing without the whole. Its individual motes are sparkly and luminous under certain slants of sunlight. Much like us, they rely on the sun for their beauty. Snow and sand form deserted deserts in the night, free from the people and light that gave them attention. Who are we without the eye of another? Is the existence of everything instantiated by—dependent on—the existence of everything else?

Snow is formed by the lack of movement, molecules of water no longer repulsing, each attracted to the other by forces outside their control. These forces lead to its collective dance in the winter, the way it spreads over the land, trees, branches, windows, windshields. Like germs and pollen you can’t shield yourself from its consuming embrace, try as you might. With it comes the cold that pierces our layers, reminds us what it means to be alive, that life requires a certain degree of exposure, a level of vulnerability to what is outside our control. One morning it’s a winter wonderland, the next a sea of gray slush, an inconvenience for the commuters, though the birds don’t seem to mind. They continue to sing despite the weather.

The first time I saw snow I was in Times Square. It was my first time in New York City. Each drop was illuminated by buzzing signs and large billboards. Faces and feet blurred past me as I stood against time with with my body turned toward a sky dotted by snow. Snow, more sticky than the pixels we feed ourselves on. Snow, that reminder of change and seasons, that there is beauty in the extremes. Snow, the seasonal friend of rocks and graveyards who always returns. It always does.