What the Sky Forgot

When I was little, 

the snow always came before Christmas. 

I’d wake up to white rooftops 

and the hushed noises

that made the world feel safe- 

like winter was tucking us in.

My sister would be up first,

calling me to the window,

a mug of cocoa steaming in her little hands

I’d press my fingers to the glass,

leaving tiny prints that melted the cold,

the flakes would dance down slowly, 

like the sky was putting on a show just for us.

back then, I thought it would always be like this.

Now it's almost December,

and the grass is still showing. 

the air feels wrong-

too warm, too alive.

people call it “a mild winter.”

but it doesn't feel mild. 

It feels like it's forgetting us.

Sometimes I scroll through old photos-

snow forts, sled tracks,

me in a coat that swallowed me whole,

laughing with red cheeks and frozen hair.

those memories feel heavier now,

like they belong to a world

that doesn't visit anymore.

We will still get snow sometimes, 

but it comes late,

and it melts fast-

as if it's lost its will to stay. 

even the flakes seem thinner,

falling apart before they touch the ground.

every year,

the snow feels more like a rumor

than a promise. 

Still, I stand outside anyway,

hands bare,

waiting for the sky to remember us.

one flake lands on my sleeve- 

a small, perfect thing

trying its best to exist.

I watch it fade into nothing,

and I wish I could tell it 

that I'm trying, too.