The First Snow

“Snow is coming,” said Papa. “Your very first snow.”

Zoya looked out the window. No snow. Just the grey sky, thinking about it.

“When?”

“Soon. Winter never hurries. But it always sends its little signs ahead. Watch for them.”

So Zoya watched.

The first sign came flying — geese, high over the buildings, calling honk, honk, honk. “They’re going ahead to tell everyone,” said Papa. “Sign one!”

Then the big tree by the bus stop dropped its very last leaf. It spun all the way down like it was enjoying itself. “Sign two,” said Papa. “The trees are ready.”

Then one morning, Zoya’s breath came out of her mouth as a little white cloud. Huff! Another cloud! Huff, huff! She was a tiny dragon at the bus stop, and so was Papa, and so was everyone, all the way down the street.

“Sign three,” laughed Papa. “The air is ready.”

“But WHERE IS THE SNOW?”

“Coming, coming. The sky is filling its pillows.”

Zoya waited. She huffed her dragon clouds. She wore the new red mittens to dinner, just in case. And still the grey sky thought, and thought, and thought.

Then, one night, while Zoya was fast asleep and dreaming of nothing at all — the sky finished thinking.

“Zoya,” whispered Papa, in the morning. “Come and see.”

The whole world was white.

The rooftops: white. The big tree: white. The cars had turned into soft white loaves of bread, all parked in a row. And the sky was still letting it down, fat flakes, slow and quiet, like feathers from the biggest pillow there ever was.

Zoya stood on the balcony in Papa’s arms with her mittened hand out, and a snowflake landed on the red wool — one perfect tiny star, just for her.

“It took so long,” whispered Zoya.

“That’s how you know it’s the good kind,” whispered Papa. “The best things pack slowly.”

Honk, said the geese, far away, heading on to tell the next city.

The snow came down and down, in no hurry at all, and neither was anyone else in the whole white world.