𝗣𝗶𝗻𝗸𝘆 𝗣𝗿𝗼𝗺𝗶𝘀𝗲
[ping'kee pro'mis] 𝒏𝒐𝒖𝒏
The most sacred, serious vow anyone can swear to.
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A promise made under the starlit sky, sealed with a kiss by two children who believed in the magic of unbreakable bonds, soon became anothe...
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AS I RESTED my elbows on my desk and cupped my face in between my hands, I stared outside at the white powdery snow that covered the school grounds like a blanket. Feeling trapped inside the imprisonment of the four-cornered classroom of my History class, I wanted to be outside, lying on the snow while I made a snow angel, rather than having to listen to the endless blabbering of the teacher in front of me for the remaining forty minutes. It was only the first period, and already, I wanted to go home.
As I glanced around the room, I noticed that my classmates were also lost in their own worlds. Some were taking notes of what had been said by Mrs. Barnes while others doodled absentmindedly in their notebooks, hoping to pass the time in any way possible - and I couldn't blame them. It was too early for History.
I stole a glance at the clock on the wall and it seemed to be mocking me with its slow, relentless ticking, making each second stretch into an eternity.
I sighed, wishing that I had superpowers to fast-forward to the end of the day only to remember that I wasn't living in a fictional world and had no other choice, but to endure the dullness of the lesson for the remaining minutes.
Another sigh left my lips as I turned my attention back to Mrs. Barnes and tried my best to focus on the lesson. But as the clock and the minutes ticked by, Mrs. Barnes' voice soon became a distant hum again as I allowed my eyes and mind to wander back to the snow outside. I imagined myself rolling around in the soft, powdery snow, feeling the cold embrace of winter against my skin.
The thought of cold air blowing against my cheeks and my twisted coils while I twirled around with my arms stretched wide made me feel free, leaving all thoughts of history behind.
A small smile rested on the corners of my lips as I imagined the taste of freedom and joy that awaited beyond the walls of the classroom, combined with the memory of me making a big snowman in my backyard with someone I hadn't mentioned in a long time.
"Blainey, you can't make Snowy show off his lumpy muscles! Look at his huge potbelly," the seven-year-old me giggled.
"But he needs muscles to protect us from Attie and his snow monsters, Birdie!" the eight-year-old version of Blaine said with a toothy grin.
My smile grew wider as I pictured his face changing into a serious expression as he insisted on giving our snowman "muscles." He explained that Snowy needed to be strong to fight off imaginary snow monsters, which back then, were so important to us. We spent countless hours in the cold, with my mom scolding us to come inside only to give up five minutes later, adding more snow to make Snowy look bigger and stronger- at least, that's how we saw it.
