Why think of winter?

Why think of winter?


Cinnamon and the smell of hot cider filled the room. Mother cooed. The snow fell gently while a group of carolers gathered by the door.

I switched the channel. I wanted no more of this charade, this pretend that all's okay. Yes, sometimes we had cider, but it was cold and bland. Mother was known to coo. How I hated that. Sure, I missed the carols, but not the bundling up. The Snow?

The snow started in October. We waited for the first flake, stared out classroom windows in anticipation. Woke up November mornings hoping it was deep enough to cancel school. By December, prayed that the freezing rain would freeze some more and flake. We cherished white mounds that could be tunneled through, wet slush that fashioned into ice balls by our gloves stung our friends and foes alike.

But what did this all smell like? Dry cold held no memories; wet cold stung. Winter was a time of coughs and sniffles, the house made stuffier each day by the odor of living and cooking. At first, turkey, potatoes and stuffing enticed us; but, after a week of leftovers, even the vomit lost its magic touch. Stores smelled of vanilla and perfume for those who had money for shopping. The sights and sounds outside were hushed, but the smell of dead pine lingered everywhere.

Father died in February. Does powder dusted on his forehead count? Or the 2nd of January when it was seventy-five degrees and I saw a bare chested man ride his painted pony? What about manure and crinkled wrapping paper, milk chocolate and my broken heart?

No. Better to think of Spring and that first dandelion in bloom. Can I reminisce about the smells of Winter later? Even then, I'd rather not.


Kåre Enga

295 words when submitted for

Daily Flash Fiction Challenge  (13+) Enter your story of 300 words or less. #896794 by Arakun the Twisted Raccoon