snow globes

When I was a child, my family used to get snow globes as gifts. We were new to this country, and so the true gift was the ability to hold the reverie of our future lives, as idyllic, peaceful, and soft as what lay behind the glass.  My mother always loved them because she could enjoy the snow without my father having to shovel, and without her children having to get pneumonia (or what she thought was pneumonia, but what was usually a runny nose.)

Over the years, the clutter of our dreams undermined the initial giddiness of their tangibility. Soon, dreams gathered dust, as did our snow globes, and many of them were lost or shattered, the viscous suspension staining our carpets.

We're no longer new, no longer young, but remain exceedingly restless, as we seek a way to rebuild these shattered snow globes. We seek the stillness behind the glass, the sense of easy tranquility, the furry boots and the Eskimo caps that never induce static cling.

My hair still stands up when I take off winter hats, I have been punished for my dreams, and the sounds outside my window are loud, raucous,and jeering. And still, my slippery hands are doused in glitter and minuscule tile roofs and powdery, white, soft snow.