It blizzards at the most inopportune times.

I hover by the glass patio door, hand up against its frosted surface. Transfixed, I watch the bushy clumps of snow settle on the ground. A millennium passes as I stand there, exhausted by the debilitating weight of loneliness. I realize I miss someone, or maybe something, although I’m unsure who or what.

Perhaps I miss everyone.

Perhaps I miss myself.

Suddenly, an inexplicable wave of clarity hits me. I want to make snow angels.

Bundled up like the Pillsbury Doughboy, I waddle outside, tongue out to catch the snowflakes.

A gentle thud hits the ground as I fall back against it. Waving my arms up and down repeatedly, I wish I was six again. Behind the dreary grey clouds above, there are pink tones, and I hope that somewhere, someone’s watching the sunset; revelling in the vibrant colours stretching across the expanse. For a second, even in the sub-zero temperature, I almost feel warm.

As I sit up, I realize my face is salty and wet, although not from the snow. Robotically, I walk back inside, glancing back at the snow one last time.

It’s no longer pristine.