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During Snowmageddon.
Twenty-One
Nova
I crouch down,all but lying flat out on the icy road, camera angled up, aiming between the branches.
“A little more,” I whisper. “Just…right…there!”
I snap the shot—and a few extras for good measure—and just in time because Steve’s lost patience from where I zipped him into my jacket, his little smooshed face poking out from beneath the zipper, cold nose pressing to my throat, tongue darting out and slurping along my skin.
“Ugh,” I say, wiping the back of my gloved hand over the spot, using the other to scroll through the shots, making sure I captured that sliver of tree and pine needles and snow, the knobby end of the branch, the divots in the bark, the claw marks from a bear making his territory known or scratching her back or cubs making trouble.
It’s there, and it’s exactly what I want.
A perfect slice of nature, a small, beautiful moment with a thousand tiny details hidden, almost lost, in the outside world.
But once spotted, it’s easy to get lost in that tiny circle that houses an entire world.
It’s going to look amazing blown up.
Itwouldhave looked amazing in the magazine—but since I don’t work for one any longer…
I exhale, let my camera drop to the side, the heavy weight a welcome comfort.
The wind has picked up, and the temperature has dropped since I left the house—hence the reason my little pup is zipped against my chest. Even with a sweater and snow booties, it’s too cold for him to just be sitting out in this weather. Especially when snow is falling again.
I start making my way back to the house, not having made it far.
Part of that is not wanting to get lost.
Part of that is because Steve isn’t a huge fan of walking long distances in the snow, apparently—or long distances at all, really.
Part of it is because these trees right here are beautiful.
Almost as beautiful as the flakes of snow falling like magic out of the sky, playing tag with each other, being turned topsy-turvy by the wind.
I pause, not because I want to.
But because Ihaveto.
I lift my camera, start hitting the shutter-release button, letting it fly, filling up my memory card, committing this moment to memory both on camera and in my mind.
The cool biting my cheeks.
The wind lifting my hair.
The tiny bites of cold as the snowflakes hit my nose, my forehead, my cheeks and lips and chin, and melt instantly, forming tiny puddles, narrow tracks as they drip down my skin and off my jaw.
The trees—
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?!”
The moment I’m committing to memory shatters, breaking apart into a thousand tiny shards.
Steve woofs and I turn to see Lake storming up to me, expression furious, footsteps churning up the falling snow. He marches right up to me, those hazel eyes sparking with fire. “It’s fucking Snowmageddon and—”
“Grr!”
