Prologue
Lasting Winter Lattice: A Childhood Recollection
Thursday, December 25
Dear Diary,
The first thing I remember is the hush.
A deep, thick quiet that filled my room when I woke up. Not a scary quiet, but a secret one—the kind that means something wonderful has happened while you were dreaming.
I pulled back my curtain and the world was gone. Our garden, the big oak, the old stone birdbath—all of it had disappeared under a smooth, white blanket. The light that came through my window was so bright and clean it made my eyes water. It looked like a page that hadn't been written on yet.
Dad said it was a "proper Christmas canvas" at breakfast. I knew exactly what he meant. It felt like the beginning of something.
Mom wrapped my blue scarf around my neck twice. "You'll freeze out there," she said, but she was smiling when she said it. She zipped my coat right to my chin. When I stepped outside, the cold pinched my cheeks and turned my breath into little clouds. I was the first person to make a mark anywhere. My boots went crunch-squeak-crunch in the perfect snow.
I decided right then to build a snowman.
I started with his middle, right where the rose bush sleeps in summer. The snow packed perfectly. I rolled and rolled until the ball was so big I had to push it with my whole body. My mittens turned dark and wet. The second ball was easier. The third one, for his head, was just the right size. Lifting it was the scariest part—I had to balance it carefully, my arms shaking, until it tipped into place on top. There he stood, a little wobbly, waiting.
He needed a face. I found two smooth, dark stones under the big oak for his eyes. A small pinecone made a fine nose. For his mouth, I chose a little stick that curved up at the ends. It looked like the quiet smile you make when you're remembering something nice. Mom opened the kitchen window then and passed me an old scarf. "For his neck," she said. "It used to be the reddest red." It was soft and faded, the color of old bricks. I wrapped it around him, and he was finished.
There he was. My snowman. All mine.
I lay down beside him in the smooth snow to make my angel. The cold seeped right through my coat. I swept my arms up and down, my legs open and shut. When I stood up, the angel was there—my own shape, pressed into the world. I lay back down between my snowman and my angel and looked straight up. The sky was a pale, washed-out blue, like a watercolor painting someone had tried to erase. But it was a peaceful sort of empty. We were three quiet things together, and for a little while, I didn't feel alone at all.
When the cold began to bite my fingers for real, I went inside. Mom sat me on the hearthrug and put a big mug of hot chocolate in my hands. I held it close, feeling the heat soak into my stiff fingers.
"You built a fine friend," she said softly. Then she reached for the big album on the shelf, the one with the green cloth cover. She patted the space beside her. I went and sat, and she opened the book. She turned past so many smiling faces, until she stopped. "Look," she whispered.
It was our garden. But it was a loud, busy garden. The grass was a blazing, shouting color that seemed to jump right off the page.
"So green," my mom sighed, her finger tracing the photo. "Remember how green it was?"
Green.
I know that word. It's the word for grass in my storybooks. For frogs and limes and the trim on my curtains.
I looked from the loud, bright picture to the window. My real garden was silent and white. My snowman was white. The color from the picture—that green—was not outside. It wasn't hiding under the snow. It was just… gone.
And that's when the wondering began. It didn't feel like thinking. It felt like a small, cold stone dropping into my heart.
Where does a color go when it leaves?
Does it drain into the earth like rainwater?
Does it get folded up and tucked into the roots of things?
Or does the snow, which is so gentle and complete,
simply not know that other colors exist?
Maybe it isn't mean. Maybe it just has a very short memory,
and can only remember one thing: white.
Maybe the world is like a person. Sometimes it remembers in summer. Sometimes it only remembers in winter.
Before I came inside, I told my snowman about the green. I leaned close to his pinecone nose and whispered it. I know he's only snow. But he has those two steady stone eyes. They look like they see everything and forget nothing. He'll remember the green for me. He'll stand in my white garden and hold that idea, so I don't have to.
He has to remember.
I'm scared that I might forget.
Yours,
Charlotte
P.S. I hope he lasts forever.