Still in the Snow

Two small bodies against a world too big

The Aureli Brothers, First American Winter, circa 1980 (Daniel in red; the author in blue)

School was canceled, the storm heavier than they said. Mom, tired of the noise, waved us out: Go play. So, we did. Down by the schoolyard. Mounded snow into crooked walls, packed it tight with our small red hands. We waited for cars to pass. Threw. Missed. Laughed. The sound swallowed by white. Then a gray sedan. An old man. My throw faltered. The snowball struck a rusted truck instead. The kind that belongs to someone who answers. Doors slammed. Voices rose. High school boys spilled into the street, their shouts cracked the frozen air. We ran. Legs heavy, lungs burning, snow clutching our boots. The neighborhood a blur of fences and half-buried toys. The last barrier too tall. My brother couldn’t climb. I couldn’t lift him. We sank down, backs pressed to splintered wood, our jeans drank the cold. Go, he said. Save yourself. But how could I? He was the only map I had in this nameless white. So, I stayed. Two small bodies pressed into silence, waiting for the world to find us.

First Published in Last Stanza Poetry Journal, Issue #23

My brother Daniel (left) and I posing in some snazzy outfits (Australia, circa 1977)

---

As always, a huge THANK YOU for taking the time to read my poem. Without you, my voice would be a whisper just floating in the air.

---