JUE POST 3

The snow fell. Soft and white it blanketed the garden. We stepped out with virgin prints, her crutches left damp black holes.  Bangs and sizzles, filtered through flakes as large as doilies. Back bent, she lifted her twisted face and smiled. I hugged my son close to my side – tried not to look – the flakes tickled my eyes, made them damp. I mustn’t cry, I cannot cry.

By morning it was if the snow had never been here. The spent firework box remained on the lawn until spring.