Snow Dreams

Cielo Lee

I want to think of you as a constant, but, being human, you were not. We shared copper hair like two lighthouses flashing at each other, before yours turned white like the snow that doesn’t fall: suspended, stagnant. When the world lost you gently, snow touching sunlit ground, I searched, who died today? and you weren’t there. In the midst of plague, a little snow only dusts swollen eyes, walking corpses huddling under buttresses. I wanted to chant your name, howl instead of hide in my den, but I knew you wouldn’t hear.

I imagine that all the gods exist on the same level, power equal, flocks of human souls wandering. When the world lost you gently, I imagined forgotten Thoth, Egyptian god of knowledge, and I asked him to take you in, if your Christian god wouldn’t.

You would have sent me lace, little squares and circles of delicate spun thread, spiderwebs. The snow was falling in the place I should have been. Imagine if I were there, separated from my family, hearing the news over a phone call in the middle of class. You weren’t sick, they said, you were sleeping. You were happy.

Did you choose the moment in your dreams? I’m sure you were dreaming. Everyone dreams.

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