I'm thinking about.......... it starts snowing one night, when everyone is asleep, sheets of it. you know it's going to be hard for the fishermen in the morning, you know it is.
but still, you bundle up, double up on socks, shove them into your boots.
there's nothing better than fresh snow, your own footprints the only ones yet to crunch a new path, dirt roads obscured under the sparkling white blankets. being on an island like Crockett, you're used to rain, even hail, so when it snows in earnest it's such a treat.
and it's beautiful to see, most lights inside houses turned out for the night. but you can still see, what small light there is reflected off the snow, illuminating the world in blue light.
it's calm, calmer than usual, which is a feat you'd been unaware was possible in Crockett. the exposed bits of your skin burn cold, but you love it, the sensation wiping away any of the tiredness you might have felt at the late hour.
and just, while you're looking up at the fluffy snowflakes falling from the sky, you feel eyes on you, and you turn to see father Paul, dressed similarly to yourself, bathed in the light of one of the odd streetlamps on the island that hadn't yet gone out.
you smile and wave at him, feeling a pull, but you don't want to make him feel like he has to talk to you; you're sure he has his own reasons for wanting to be out at this hour, and you don't want to intrude.
but he smiles so brightly it rivals the snow, waves back, and begins to walk towards you. you meet him halfway.
you just.... you wander, together, in the snow. talk about everything and nothing, upcoming events, favorite winters. you try not to watch how his breath leaves him in big clouds, the pink of his nose.
the way snowflakes fall on his dark hair, his eyelashes, his shoulders. how when he laughs, you can see it in front of him, the expression of joy tangible in the air.
the way his footprints look next to yours in the snow, when you look back at them.
just,,,, the way he is so enamored with snow. another one of gods miracles. he looks at it with such wonder even though he's seen it for years, decades. you can't help but think that he's deserving of that same reverence; that he himself is a marvel put here for you to appreciate, to sing his praises, if only to yourself.
he invites you in for tea or hot cocoa, insisting that it's the least he can do after you've kept him company for so long, and you must be cold, aren't you? you don't have the heart to tell him that no, you aren't all that cold, you've been warned to the core by being in his presence uninterrupted, the sole object of his attention for a few hours. but of course, you accept and promise you won't take up too much more of his time.
you don't see the fondness in his eyes when he drapes a blanket over you, dozed off on his couch in front of the fire. your snow clothes are hanging on various surfaces, set out to dry. he smiles at your sleeping form, the same reverence he showed the snow outdoors that you admired so much. sleep well, he tells you.
