The Boy in the Snow

The Boy, the Crow, and the Never Ending Snow

The crystalline snowflakes fell ever so gently, gently, as the cool winter breeze blew them to and fro across the long stretch of frozen grassland. The small flakes of pure cold white littered the once soft ground and sprinkled each individual blade of grass. Clouds covered the sky in a constant depression. Animals no longer ran around the used to be warm haven, but instead hid away, as if threatened by the consistent darkness that took away all life of promise and hope. It was all gone. The glistening streams were but frozen over and encased anything that resides within the cold water.

Some said it was disastrous, ugly, and pernicious. Others said it was beautiful, and purifying. The snow swept away all the bad things from the world and instead kept things at a stand still. It truly was a sight. The glistening snow swept over a small cottage style house and encased it in it's comforting hold.

Inside the house was a believer that the cold wasn't so bad- that it was indeed the purest thing in this world. Of course he would think this, however, as his innocent eyes were shielded of the harsh setting of reality. The cold was fierce. The cold was harmful. The cold could kill. But all the little boy could see through his small oak window with blue curtains strewn across, was that the cold could heal.

The boy would watch, day in, day out, as the land around him was taken more and more by the icy wind and sleet. No one could possibly walk through it, as they would instantly freeze. He would think that no matter how much this weather was looked down on, that it must have some benefit on the world. Nothing was placed on this Earth without a reason, he remembered.

This boy, so hidden and ignorant of the evil outside, would still sit and watch the world change. Right at his little wooden desk with drawings and sketches thrown around on it, he sat. Sometimes so long his legs went numb.

He would watch for so long that he became too tired to hold his own head up, as it would sway up and down in an effort to stay and watch the nightly beauty. But alas, he would always be put to bed by the young woman, his aunt. Off he would drift, as sleep overtook his mind and put into a world of dreams, where evil never exists.

Then, as if by clockwork, so early would he arise from the soft cotton bedding he would so stubbornly fall asleep on, and once again sit at the window and watch. No one really knew what he would watch, but he did. The deep charcoal eyes that seemed to never end with emotion, yet never feel at all, would see hints that no other person ever could. His dark, almost black hair would fall onto his face and curtain his pale, fragile cheeks, and frame his face perfectly. The boy was young, but had the beauty of no other.

The outside was a dangerous place, they would tell him. Sometimes, he would think that there was more to it all than what he was told. Just out there, out of his small abode of warmth and flavor of Rosemary and cinnamon, was there actually more life? Could other people live, just like he; alone? The boy hated the thought, however, so he pushed it to the back of his mind and just kept watching.

His aunt would tell him to never open the window, as the cold would come in and surely take him away. When he asked where it would take him, she just smiled and brushed her graying brown hair back into it's loose bun, and say it was where his parents were. Who were his parents? So full of joy and warmth, was he told, that everyone loved them as much as they loved their world. It would keep him up at night, the bare thought of his mothers arms wrapping around him. Did she know the cold that he was so protected from? Did his father see hate and anguish that he never felt his whole life? Did they see the world as it was meant to be?

Of course, his questions were never voiced, as to not worry his dear aunt, who raised the small boy since he was a toddler. She always had a far look in her eyes, a deep, deep, sorrow that remained glued to her soul and never let go. Someday, he wanted to know what that sorrow was.