Boots on Snow

I love to write. By writing, I construct a world for myself with words. They can be hurtful or loving, demanding or shy. Words have the power to create a different reality. 

 My love of writing stems from a love of beautiful things. Once, while walking around the reservoir, I looked down and admired the way my black-tipped, fur-lined boots contrasted with the stark-white snow turning to slush. I whipped out my Polaroid camera and snapped a picture. It popped out and I shielded it with my hand. Then, I uncovered and observed the picture. It was blurred, my boots a flurry of activity, the snow a smear of gray-white. But the contrast I had seen was still there- beautiful. 

 I taped the photo into my notebook, a cheap item with a flimsy cover. The notebook had once been a half-centimeter thick- now it was so thickened with Polaroid photos it could hardly lie closed, it just had to share its memories with the world. I'd often walk to my desk and find the notebook lying open to a random photo. I'd look at it, trying to remember what I'd seen in that moment in time. Sun shining over water- the bright, exuberant happiness emanating from the small frame. Mist hanging over ice- the thick, velvety feel of drapes, safety, and protection. Black-tipped, fur-lined boots on snow- the blinding contrast, the simple beauty of a fast-moving, lovely life. 

 The Polaroid camera wasn't all mine. It had been given to me and my brother, a gift from our aunt. Usually me and my brother's relationship was a good one, my fiery temper dampened by his sweet temperament. For trifles that we liked we would do a back and forth show of generosity- "You take it," "No, you take it," "I insist," "It's yours," and so on. But for gifts that we loved, we didn't hang back. We grabbed the camera, our fingers on every button. 

 We ran into the backyard and took turns taking photos.  My brother took family photos, with us all lined up in a row. I took photos of garden flowers. Pink roses, edges tattered from rabbits that my aunt always complained about. "They're ruining my plants," she'd say. "Eating them full of holes." Still, my aunt kept her flowers, for which I was grateful. They made great photos- fiery orange and yellow fire lilies, their nibbled edges like real flames. One time a man walked past with his dog, a fine shepherd with brown fur that shone like liquid gold in the harsh sunlight. I didn't like how the sunlight roughened the scene, but I took a picture anyway. It came out perfect. The sun's rays were softened, reminding me of angels' curls.

It's amazing how many memories can come from a little notebook so filled with Polaroid photos it can't stay shut. Each one is a little gift. Each one is a source of inspiration. Each one is a story, just being born.