And the Kisses Feel Like Tears
Snow.
Soft kisses of ice raining on her face.
She giggles.
Bright flecks of white
sprinkled through long dark hair
clinging to lashes and knitted mittens.
The door opens and a women tumbles out.
Coat, hat, gloves over winter pyjamas.
The same dark hair.
Both shriek and laugh.
Spin in circles and make snow angels.
They chase each other around,
the tiny girl and the beautiful women,
until a man calls them back.
Fighting both a smile and the cold,
he stands on the step.
They slip and skid and make it to the door,
shed coats, boots, hats.
The mother removes the mittens from her daughters coat,
and hangs them by their string.
Towels are used and discarded,
robes pulled on.
The morning begins.
Snow falls again as she watches.
Watches the brightness
as it covers the ground and wishes
that it would fall inside.
White would cover black.
Light to lift the dark.
Drifts to muffle the whispers.
She sits by the window, as people move through the room,
and talk in hushed voices.
A hand on her shoulder.
She turns. A neighbor, face a mask of pity.
"I'm so sorry."
The daughter nods, and turns back to the window.
The snow still falls.
She rises, her shoes click across the floor.
Hands clasped in front of the plain black skirt.
Shoulders stiff in their black blazer.
Hair pulled back, tight and sharp.
She walks, older now,
past candles,
past pictures,
past people.
Past the room where her parents are.
Her father nods his head as people speak to him.
"I'm sorry..."
"So sudden..."
"Anything we can do..."
She steps out the front door
it falls shut behind her.
Silence.
The low, square heels of her shoes
curnch over the ice.
Her stockings grow damp as she
moves to the center of the yard.
Again she stands in the snow,
letting it fall in her dark hair.
Agains he gazes up, up.
And the kisses feel like tears.