I lay down, shivering. Arms bare. Legs out. I don’t care.

The snowflakes melt when they touch my skin, proving I’m still alive; I feel dead inside. If I let the overhead persistence cover me, no one would ever know. They’d never say: where did she go? I’d just be gone. Gone as fast as the snow disappears overnight. Or as fast as it comes.

The ground weeps for the snow when it vanishes into oblivion. Upset at the sudden disappearance of a well loved friend. I doubt anyone would cry at my funeral.

But then, maybe the ground sobs in contentment, blissful in the knowledge that the friendly flakes will return next year, to smother her in a hug. Tears of joy, not sorrow. The snow always goes but never forever.

Oh to be snow! To come and go whenever you please (provided the weather is right). I want to go, but if I do I can’t return.

Before I can make the terrible decision that may change my life irreparably, heat radiates into my freezing elbow. A hand.

I turn to look at my companion’s face. She smiles. An apology for interrupting my melancholy thoughts. “Come inside,” she says. What she means is stay. Don’t go like the snow. Stay.