The soft flakes of snow land on my cold, young face.
It’s winter outside, they tell me.
Why is it not winter inside, I ask.
That’s not how this works, they say. We are sophisticated creatures. We don’t care for the cold so we protect ourselves from it.
Oh, I say, but I think I like the cold.
No, they reply, no one likes the cold.
Years later, the snow strikes again.
Do you still like the cold, they ask.
Yes, I reply, I am quite sure that I do.
Well change that, they say, you’re not normal until you despise the things you can’t control.
But nature, I say, the trees, the plants, the ground, it’s all so beautiful in the snow.
No, they reply, it’s abhorrent, abysmal, and everyone hates the winter.
They’re older now, and it’s even colder now.
You must hate the snow by now, they say.
No, I reply, I actually quite enjoy it.
Well you’re wrong, they say, the cold is the worst thing on the planet, and no one should tolerate it.
But it’s beautiful, I say, and I love it.
You’re a freak, they reply, and everyone hates you because of it.
They’re dead now, their bodies buried deep underneath the piles of snow. The cold, harsh flakes pound my stone face, hardened by life. A child stands next to me. I quite like the snow, she says. I look at her, my tears frozen to my face.
No one likes the snow, I say.