My little brother wriggled in his seat:

“I gotta go,” he said,

pulling on my dad’s tattooed arm.

My father escorted him to the bathroom stall

at the back of the bus.

I was alone for a few blissful moments

where I read my book

and periodically stared out the window

at the passing scenery.

The Greyhound droned on and on,

eating up the road like a sea snake

drawing water as it slithers through the reeds.

Whoosh: a line of naked trees goes by—

Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh—

plotted in vast fields of brown and gray

against an indifferent sky.

I imagined what it would be like

and when we would get there:

I sunk into my winter jacket and pictured

myself leaping

from one mound of snow to the next,

leaving deep imprints, clearing a crooked path.

Another fifteen hours until

we reached our destination—

left me wringing my hands,

adjusting and readjusting my seatbelt,

running my fingers through my long, tangled hair.

Where were we…

how far had we come?

Finally we pulled into a barren station,

with just a bench and an overhang

covered in snow.

This was our stop,

but it couldn’t be, I thought—

there was no one around;

it was storming outside and cold

to the core;

no amount of warm clothes

could have taken off the edge:

red, chapped face barely visible beneath my scarf—

I had never been caught in a snowstorm,

never made a snowman,

never seen the exact intricacies of a snowflake:

“There are no two alike,” my dad said,

catching me

as I marveled at the expanse,

slowly rising higher with every bit of snowfall.

It was the first time

I thought god must be real;

this showy blizzard

swept up and away

almost as quickly as it had started.

My father retrieved our bags,

I thought I was an Eskimo,

a snow princess,

an ice fairy.

I held my hands up to the white:

Colorado.