We never asked anyone what the plant was called. Did we ever? Were we just told? That's a hydrangea, over there. With the flowers that are pink and blue, both at once. Those are rhododendrons. The ones with the little ballerina flowers are fuchsias. And that's a camellia.
No, we never asked and we were never told. Because we named it ourselves. The Snowberry Bush. It describes it well enough that perhaps you might know the plant we mean. With the little white berries, round as snowballs. We used to pick them on the way to school. We knew we couldn't eat them, though we never tried. We flicked them at the back of each-other's legs. We crushed them under our feet. We held them up close to our eyes to marvel at how snow-like they really were; their insides, white mush, so similar to snow that it was hard to believe how warm they were.
If you hold one to your ear and crush it between your thumb and forefinger, the sound is like a footstep on a new blanket of snow. The cold breath of Winter, whispering to you. I'm coming, he says. I'm coming.
I am going to write a story of some variety, long or short, fictitious or factual, every single day for a year. Wish me luck.
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