Perfect Forever Snow

This is a story that I haven't shared with anyone until now.
The moment a memory is remembered one is not sure, I am not sure if this was real or imagination. My imagination.
But then again, once we have imagined something, anything, a moment, a feeling, it takes on a life and becomes a part of you.
This is my memory.

The sun woke me up with a blistering burn on my left cheek. That morning fresh snow had fallen. The snow was different when I was a child. It was whiter, prettier and lasted perfect and un-touched for what seemed like months. Maybe it was. Or maybe it was me that lasted longer, innocent and looking only at the beauty of things, the snow. Not the slush and ickiness of it.
I got out of bed. My bed was to the right of the window and next to the wall. I liked my bed to be against the wall, since my feet always got too hot under the clown covers and the cold wall was an immediate cooler.
I got out, no slippers. Hot feet remember.
I rushed to the door, creeped out. Down the hallway, past their room, and into the living room.
There was a man, a tall man.
I knew he always existed, but now finally he was real. I could see him. I looked and saw him.
Long curly only at the ends white beard and same hair, only shorter. White and perfect as fresh meringue. Eyes piercing into the sparkling lights. Bags and ribbon, everywhere. I was not alone.
A chill and a warmth were introduced.
The soft breath of life was felt all around me and there was a pinky mist that travelled all around the room. Swirling and picking up ribbons and as the pink air now moved, so did the ribbons. Many ribbons, different colours. It was magical.
One breath spoke. It was a deep voice, but young. A voice I had never heard before but know it was a man named Serban. My father's cousin who passed away long ago. We never met but I was given his name as my middle name and eventhough I only know him through stories, pictures and other people's versions of him I always felt I did know him. I cannot explain it to you or even to myself. It just is. It's like love, you cannot explain why you love someone or something. You can make lists and give reasons but the true true true reason you love someone is because...you just do.

I walked closer, right next to him. I could still feel the night's travelling air on his cuff. It was nice. Real. Reminded me again, he was real.

My sudden magical night was halted by a loud slide of the balcony door. We were on the 10th floor. It was my mother. I froze, stunned for only a moment. I must have forced myself to shake it off, or else I would not have remembered the moment. Then I realized that the time spent with him was becomming foggy too quicky.
I was brought to tears. I remember rushing off down the hallway, past their room and into my room.
I ached, heart and mind exhausted. My feet were now cold as ice.
I remember laying there. The outside perfect snow had now stopped. It was not perfect then. I was just snow. The twinkle of the stars met the crusted brulee snow and bounced beaming off every parking lot member.

The pink air was now in my room. The cuff grazed my arm and I felt his warmth around me. Again. I stayed in my room for awhile. I wasn't ready to give him up just yet. After all we had just met. I took it all in, through my shut so tight eyes they burned. The memory of what was, an angel.

Life, lost.

Standing in line today for my usual "mushroom soup" request I overheard a father mention to a friend, family friend? the details of his loss.

This is a man who is a dear acquaintance of my work life. My daily 10-6 life...my "other life".

Last year suddenly his son was shot and killed...you must remember. The 2 young men killed on June 13th. The horror. I cannot and do not want to even imagine. The Prime.

As I ordered the "other" soup offered (community has caught on to the mushroom fabulous-ness!! and it's one hot ticket) get there early.

I've become "The Soup Nazi " about my soup...the thought of 1-ish lunch time is the breath that keeps me going, the pieces of sliced oyster mushrooms, ahh, unbelievable.

Somber again.

As I ordered the " other " soup the initial conversation as I walked in had now changed from small details of the day, the phone call earlier, the game results and the request for Tums pickup for mother...to a foundation in his name, for dyslexia.

I felt a need to continue listening. The hope of personal details gave me a sense of personal closure. Not knowing this person but knowing of him through 3 years of contact with friends, family and clientele...I needed to know who he was. Was he sensitive or a brute. Shy, outgoing, loud, a momma's boy.

Yes, all of the above and more.

The father now noticed me and we exchanged our usual half smile, soft blink of the eyes and head tilted and down with utmost respect for one another. My for him, after all he has suffered and -ing so much. I would kneel and wash his feet if that would take away a moment of his sadness...do it everyday if it would take it away forever. Wouldn't you. I hope.

I said hello and he asked how I was. How ever did I answer doesn't seem appropriate. Even if I were to have told a lie of some made up tragedy I was dealing with, the lie would soon disappear and his reality would haunt me forever. I said that I was doing well, thank you and with my cold and unsteady arm leaned in, patted him on his left arm and ask how he was doing.

He smiled softly, little creases that weren't there before now appeared stronger than a grandmother's laugh lines. He didn't answer as fast as I did, but when he did he too placed his hand on my hand and said he was doing....sigh... fine. He gently patted my hand, now warm.

It's amazing the love, the energy one can still feel even in pain.

It's as if the love from his dear son has filled his heart now more than in his living years. If that even makes any sense. It doesn't make sense. Never will. But he does.

So he sat and I stood in silence for what seemed like hours, but only seconds until my order was ready.

"Madelmoiselle, yo soupp". ( I don't bother to correct her, now that I am actually a Madame, her sweet as dulce de leche voice sounds so dear saying Mademoiselle, Madame just wouldn't sound as romantic.)

I pay, look back and forth between the busy everything counter of jellies, brioche and marzipan snowmen and the father. I hate that I was interrupted by my stupid soup order.

I say my goodbye to Madame and then....

I would go on with my day, eat my soup, have some tea and maybe even splurge on an eclair and forget the pain we shared just then.

He will have that after I exit, as I walk back to my "other life", as I eat my " other " soup and continue.

I looked back as I wrapped my only cold right hand around the paper take out bag and his hand was as I left it, not closed anymore but open.. hope that the healing can start.

The comfort of the willingness to reach out and give. More than I can say.