A/N: Written after a hectic, so it may seem a little off. I did my best and all mistakes are mine.
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Snow
He hated the snow.
Even as a kid, he didn't really enjoy it as much as the others seemed to. But that is probably because the cold would cause his battered body to become stiff and sore making him hurt that much more. As if he didn't have enough pain in his life.
His brother and sister loved the snow. They always begged him to take them out and play in it. Their mom had to stay in to make sure the house was ready for when their father got home. They would never ask their father to go out with them. They only did it once, and once was too many times.
But he wants to see them happy, so he grudgingly puts on warm clothes and goes out into the snow. He helps them with their snowman, helps his sister throw snowballs at their brother, and lets his brother tackle and wrestle him on the snowy ground for revenge, all the while ignoring how pain is radiating through his arm, the one that had the cast taken off not even a month ago. He calls it quits when it hurts as bad as when it was originally broken at the hands of his father.
His wife loved the snow. She was excited as his siblings were when it started to snow. She didn't mind walking on the slippery sidewalks, stopping once or twice to fling some snow at him. He hated the slippery sidewalks, mostly because half of New York, deciding it was too dangerous to drive, would walk on those same sidewalks. The ones that would push and shove and cuss. Man did he hate those people!
She always begged him to go skiing with her. Every single "snow" day she would ask him. Only twice did he give in. The first time, he couldn't move for three days afterwards and had to call in sick leaving his bosses very unhappy with him. The second time, he caught bronchitis that nearly turned into pneumonia, requiring an overnight hospital stay. He cussed at everyone, and although his cursing was never directed toward her, she overheard his mumblings about the ski trip and exactly what he thought of it. After that, she never asked him again.
His daughter loved the snow. One, because of her mother, and two, because she was a kid. The time when she was two and they took her out was the first time he didn't hate the snow. Hearing her almost nonstop giggles as she played in the snow was just amazing. He decided that he would gladly have every day a snow day for the rest of his life if his daughter could always be that happy.
When his wife decided that she needed something more than what he could give her, she served him with divorce papers while snow fell around them for the third time in seven days. He took up refuge in his office that night and if it weren't for the two layers of clothes he had on, plus his jacket, plus three blankets, he is sure that he would have froze to death. Turns out that something in the heater was damaged by the snow and the building was without heat for thirty hours straight.
After his wife and daughter moved away to another life with another man, he gritted and bared his teeth on the snow days. Sometimes the memory of his daughter made him happy and he didn't quite hate it. Sometimes the memory was nowhere to be found, and he cursed whoever thought of snow.
Later, she came along. She was wonderful and marvelous. Had a bit of a temper, and when they got in to it, they really got in to it. But their love always triumphed over the arguments. She was perfect in his eyes.
But, she liked the snow.
She always teased him about it, called him an old man for hating something all the kids liked. He liked to show her just how old he was.
She, too, begged him to go skiing. Begged and begged and begged. He relented.
Kind of. He took her up to the resort, but refused to put on a pair of skis, instead spending the day in the lodge. She spent that whole day cussing him out under her breath. That night she gave him the silent treatment, even refusing to allow him to touch her. That was until he told her the story of his first wife and their failed ski trips. She was touched that he would bring her up to go skiing, just because she wanted it. She then forgave him, even though she still didn't understand his hate for the snow. She pushed him a little, but he withdrew, something he regrets now.
Fourteen months later, she was gone. Completely. And he hates it.
He blames himself. And the drunk, but it was his fault in the first place. The wounds run deep into his heart, into his soul.
On several occasions, as he walks on the sidewalk from the courthouse to his office, he wishes the slick snowy sidewalk would make him slip and fall and break his neck so he could be with her.
He hates visiting her when it's been snowing. He can't sit on the ground beside her and really talk to her without his pants being soaked through. He can't stand over her because it feels wrong. They were equals in their relationship. After sitting for so long with his butt freezing off, he starts to regret coming and then immediately feels guilty for thinking that. As if she'll read his mind and think that he doesn't care for her. He does. So much that it hurts, more than anyone could possibly know.
Some nights, the memories are too much for him. On these nights the scotch doesn't work. On these nights, he goes out and walks around in the cold snow. He waits for the cold chill to hit his skin, waits for the feeling of the snow as it lands on his head. No feelings come. He's too numb to feel anything.
On these nights he waits and sees if the ghost will come for him. She does, but not to take him with her. She slowly guides him back to his apartment, into the shower to warm up, and into the bed.
Nowadays, he hates the snow because he is old, and the aches and pains of his youth have come back to haunt him. At night, instead of going out like he used to, he sits by the window as the snow comes down. It reminds him of when she was alive, and they would sit by the fireplace and watch the snow.
Nowadays, the snow seems to be a constant reminder of what he has to look forward to. Whenever he goes, she will be there to greet him.