Snowflakes

Saturday morning listening to footsteps on the marble foyer in the lobby, listening to a loud telephone conversation of an anonymous man through a closed locked door I sit alone. There is the familiar sound of running water, dishes being placed into and moved around in a sink. Two children and their father drift from the elevators, patiently stare out the glass doors at the snow and the children outside. The children have great enthusiasm and expectation.

As I watch the snowflakes fall outside and watch people walk by, some with parka hoods up, others beneath open umbrellas I am reminded of the beauty and fragility of life. At this moment the snow blankets the building stoop, lawn, sidewalk, street with a mysterious whiteness. There is a swirling purity and playfulness in falling snow. We are told that all snowflakes are unique. Watching their descent I can almost see imaginary lines and triangles. I search for isosceles triangles. Watching the snowflakes I remember the Pythagorean theory. How beautiful and gentle they appear! How delightful the snowflakes look. There are a few pedestrians walking by, some alone, some in small groups. They remind me of survivors in a science fiction movie lost on a desolate planet, moving, searching being attacked by the snowflakes and the wind. There is something peaceful in this snowfall, something comforting and yet—

The world outside the window is cottony and inviting. The leafless tree limbs are puffy, inflated with a white brightness. There is mystery in the snow. There is hope in the snow. The snow is a wonderful canvas for my imagination. Do I see Macbeth wandering by? Do I see three Wise Men? Is that a camel? And there are voices talking about blizzards, work, shoveling, parking, laundry. And there are children playing with shovels, leaning into the moist mountains of snow, trying to build castles, trying to build igloos. And there is laughter. And someone is trying to make a snow angel.

The snowfall continues; the wind blows the snowflakes this way, that way; the children discard their shovels and jump into the snow, pick up little handfuls.

A few vehicles creep by. Then there is a brief burst of a siren and a long red fire truck drives by. It seems longer than usual with a special ladder designed to reach higher into the sky, higher than the falling snowflakes.

The brief life of a snowflake is beautiful and somehow figuratively tragic; for from it the conception in the clouds there is an impending end. A moment when it will melt, when it will no longer be a dazzling falling snowflake.

There is something beautiful and mesmerizing in this snowfall. In the wind there is a faint sound, a faint chanting that sounds like “at the hour of our death.”