Chapter 1

“I thought I wanted a life of rainbows; one filled with bright yellow feathers in crimson hats, blue-furred overcoats, green silken tops, and tall, black boots.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No, I wish I could find the stars. If my life could be as those flickering gems speckling the heavy night sky, I suppose I might cry.”

“But you haven’t”

“I haven’t a life like that. A cloud has come between myself and the stars, dreary in its oppressive weight. It doesn’t rain, nor snow, but lingers, chilling my soul as a mid-day frost alights on the brilliant blades of a dandelion.”

“You’re like a dandelion?”

“Yes, I suppose my life is a bit like a dandelion. I want to shine, to reflect the purest rays of the sun. And when I have given all my yellowness back to the world, I shall crystallize and be scattered to the four corners of the earth. I shall twist my way into the lives of many—and become a seed in their hearts, a potential of boundless glory.”

“And of those who dislike dandelions in their yards—to carry the metaphor—in their lives?”

“Who has not been pleased as a child by the yellow flower? It is only when we are taught that it does not belong with tulips and roses and daffodils, that we think it petty, a nuisance, a threat to our ordered way of life.”

“You conceive of yourself as a threat?”

“If someone supposes me a threat, who am I to argue with their ignorance. I do not actively provoke; you know this much. I enjoy the stars too much, as the dandelions enjoy the sun—the brightest star I know.”

“But do you enjoy the sun?”

“It makes me a monotheist, I know that much.”

“How so?”

“It rises so dutifully; it gives the presence of color to all indiscriminately. And everyone goes about his or her day as if the sun will surely keep its promise. I am reminded of God.”

“You believe in one God then?”

“I suppose you could say that; at least, that’s why I thought I wanted a life of rainbows. To be a prismatic reflection of the divine. To shed something of beauty on the world.”

“But you don’t want that anymore.”

“No, I’d rather be something substantive, an active subject rather than passive object; to reach and stretch and yearn for the life of the divine. Wouldn’t you?”

“I dare say I would.”

“Me too. I think it would be fantastic to live in God’s light. Which is why I like the stars, but find it impossible to live a life of the stars. No, I want a life like that of a dandelion.”

“But you said you’ve been frosted?”

“Oh yes, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean I was a very lively or healthy dandelion. No, the weather has been much too horrid for that. I’m drooping. A fact, indeed. But winter must come every year. Dying isn’t so bad you know, not if you’ve spread your seeds.”

“Do you expect to die soon?”

“I expect to die tomorrow. Even in the next hour, the next minute. Why should I expect to live any longer than I have. No, doctor, I have put out my seeds, I have been very much annihilated, and when the snow comes, the rest of what has become of me will be frozen and crushed. And it was cold today. I suppose the first snowstorm will come soon.”

“If you are prepared to die, then, do you have any regrets?”

“Yes, I suppose I do. I always wanted a cute, red hat.”

*

Leilora pulled the door shut behind her and tip-toed down the hallway, half-smiling with anxious eyes. She peered around the corner for a moment, straightened, and stepped out into the lobby with perfect posture. She tried to keep her lips sealed from a smile and to keep from glancing to the elderly woman seated on the old, orange bench to her left, but couldn’t quite succeed. So she deliberately looked out the window to her left; the blinds were slanted upwards, so that the indoor eye would have the slight advantage looking to the street below, while subverting the eyes of the curious bystander. Leilora felt her stomach tighten and something tingly race up her spine: the weather had worsened.

When she exited the waiting room and stepped lightly down the old, oak stairs to the covered entry, she bent to sooner see what lay beyond the double glass doors. What had been small, dark clouds lingering on the mountain peaks, had now massed into rolling tidal wave pouring over the range and over the city. They weren’t the highswept painter’s clouds, nor the puff-ball clouds of children’s drawings. These clouds, she knew, were snow clouds. Winter was arriving and she couldn’t contain her excitement.

The winds that drove people to dig their woolen sweaters and silken scarves from the boxes in storage only made Leilora grin with delight. The swirl and rustle of fallen leaves were the whistles announcing the coming arrival of the first flurries. She wrapped her own scarf higher on her neck.

Leilora loved keeping warm while staying exposed to the natural turn of the seasons. While she did not fear the cold, she did not enjoy being in that state. But if she could be out in chilly weather without feeling, in turn, chilled, she most certainly would.

So she smiled when she pushed open the glass doors and felt the wind rush against her cheeks, pile against her coat, batter itself against her bastion, and fail, flowing around her pillar of warmth. And though she smiled to herself, it did not happen to go unnoticed.

As a point in fact, another person, struggling with a newspaper in the sudden burst of the wind, looked up in despair at the news and caught her smile. Which, in turn, brought a smile to his face. But Leilora did not notice this, could not have noticed this. She kept her posture and walked off the curb, across the street, and walked along Park Avenue all the way home—all the while admiring the formation of the clouds and promising herself to make herself tea and scones when it would snow that evening.

*

At 5:12 p.m. Leilora looked up from her book and saw out her window the first snowflake of the season and rose from the couch to put the kettle on the stove. Her favorite chair, an old, deep, fern-green Victorian monster of a chair, she had moved halfway between the fireplace and the window in anticipation of an evening without thoughts—opening to the realm of reflection. And so, thoughtlessly she moved to the kitchen, filled the kettle, and set it to boil. There was something relaxing about the process of making tea, something of lucidity, a way of introduction to herself. She found her favorite mug from the cupboards, a thick, ugly, rough-shapen mug with character. People had always asked her why she liked that cup. And she could never truly reply. While she did give answers (I like its weight; it lends a feeling of antiquity; I feel like I’m drinking tea for the very first time in the very first mug) none of them quite resonated with her. She enjoyed running her fingers over the coarse ceramic suface, but that wasn’t why she liked it. No, it was inexplicable, she decided—it was her favorite mug simply because it was her favorite mug.

She set the teabag—Earl Grey—in the bottom of the mug and inhaled the scent of it. She let her eyes roll upwards in delight—the smell of tea soothed so many cares, so many worries within a soul. It was a sharp odor, demanding to be recognized, poignant, but warm and soft, like the paws of a kitten, she decided.

The kettle radiated warmth, now, but remained silent. Leilora leaned on the counter and opened the blinds of the kitchen window. The flakes fell more frequently now—she didn’t have to search to find one. But in the gathering dark, off down the valley, the haze of the clouds descended to blur the trees and she knew she wouldn’t have to wait long for the air to fill with swirling blowing specks of snow. The storm was so close now; when would it make that final sweep up the vale and draw the breath from her?

The kettle’s first, pathetic whistle drew her from the glass. She acted quickly—the tea needed to be hot—piping hot—she knew, if it were to steep well. But the thought of a burnt tongue always kept her from allowing the kettle to gain too much momentum with its cry. Ah, there was the muffled rush of the boiling water quieting as she poured it into the mug. There was the clarity of the water absorbing the life of the tea—darkening, mixing, changing. Leilora snatched up her spoon and stirred, entranced by the brown churning strands invading the water, claiming the mug for its own.

Enough stirring, she thought and returned to her chair. She sat—she fell into the embrace of the monstrous chair—it seemed to consume her. Crossing her legs and folding her arms, she watched the last lights fade from blurry gray—changing her world, as the tea did the water—to a dark, wonderful concoction. Tea and snowy nights, she decided, were not so very different.

After a while of staring out the window, Leilora found that she was no longer looking at the snow, but rather at her own reflection in the glass. Who was this person staring back at her? She had changed since last she remembered taking time to study herself. She was twelve at the time—wondering what would be left of her when she grew up. Leilora smiled at the memory; certainly her eyes had not changed much with the years. They carried more weight, for sure. But the same soft hazel glow was there, glistening darkly at night, lightly in the dawn. They were easy eyes to look into, unlike the piercing hawk-gaze of her sister. She had always wondered if anyone could find more to her eyes than ease of manner—if someone, someday would tell her that her eyes ignited a fire deep within him, a fire that would ravage and consume him, unquenchable by anything other than itself. She had never seen that in her own eyes.

Her nose hadn’t changed much; it was an acute, slim nose, triangular almost, without much curve to it. But her cheeks revealed the most change about her face: they weren’t so round anymore. They were high, cheerful cheeks, but leaner—a bit more fit for a serious conversation. Like her ears, which seemed to lay back against her skull like those of an aggravated cat. But she had always imagined her ears sleek, like those of an otter playfully spinning underwater.

Her dark brown hair, pulled back and loosely braided behind her at the beginning of the day, now fell around her ears. She pulled idly at a strand and stared at her reflection. Her shoulders sloped wearily—she made an effort to pull them back up, but somehow the day weighed heavily upon her. If only she still had the energy she did at twelve. If only she could dream like she did at twelve—if she could dream of her

The falling snow intensified, descending in wild waves upon the world, clinging first to tree branches and leaf tips before blanketing the resistant ground. All the while Leilora stared at or beyond the window, unsure of how to welcome the snow. The paradox of warmth and chill mesmerized her: she did not like being cold, but she did like being warm when the weather was cold—for that she enjoyed the snow. But her image in the glass, the person staring back at her was cold.

She remembered tea and strode back to the kitchen. When the mug rested firmly between her cupped hands, she found her way back to her chair and realized that the sun had set. The twilight blur of snow erased forms into darkness and the window reflected less clearly than it had. With every minute she saw less and less of herself, until all she saw was night.

The tea, however, helped her forget the cold. Her mind drifted to thoughts of tomorrow: a week’s end. She would sleep until she woke—not a minute earlier nor later. She thought about showering—a quick shower was all she needed—and then walking in the morning sun and admiring the pristine landscape. She swallowed the last of her tea and set the mug on the glass coffee table. It sounded like a plan to her.

She walked to the patio and switched on the outside light; a thousand flurried flakes ignited the night. Good, she thought, it’s still snowing. She always had to make sure; the thought of waking to a foot or more of snow was a permanently thrilling one. She flipped the light off and sauntered to her bedroom; she turned down the thermostat and left her slippers by the bedside. The sheets pressed her closely; she pulled her blanket up to her chin and sighed out her soul to the snow beyond—discovered herself drifting, drifting downward on wings of ice into the infinite darkness, falling further from the stars.