Snow Princess

Somewhere, it is snowing, and a little girl sits waiting.

She looks up and out the window, the fluffy down blanket surrounds her and puffs up about her feet and ankles, sitting cross legged on the down. 

Her shining hair falls neatly to her shoulders, and she is in perfect order. 

She's been sitting there, on the fluffy down blanket in the little room with the windows. It is warm, and the muted gray light seeps in through lace curtains. 

She is waiting. 

Waiting for what, she doesn't know.

Surely, she thinks, all this snow must be coming down for something. I shall wait to discover what it is. 

And she knows that the snow, the falling flakes that dance, are not putting on a show for nothing. They do not swirl and dance around like icy ballerinas on tiny unique shoes for nothing or no one. 

Is it for me? She wonders as she gazes past the flakes and into the deep blackness of the forest surrounding the cottage. 

No, she realizes, I am very small compared to them, them and all the creatures and animals out there. The snow is not for me. 

But who, she wonders, who is worthy of the twirls and leaps, of the flights of fancy, of the white frozen whims?

She can't begin to imagine. 

So she sits, staring out, past the flakes, past the forests and into the deepest, blackest parts of the woods that no one but the pure at heart can see. 

There, she decides, there he lives. All alone. With big eyes and an indigo coat with claws made of icicles and ears made of fern fronds. Beautiful and lonely. 

Her father, armful of wood in tow, trudges forward through the blanketing white, leaving gaping black holes on the snow faerie's stage. 

The girl leaps to her feet and presses her nose against the window, astonished. 

She hadn't contemplated the idea that the beautiful scene before her was fleeting as it was, that human boots could leave such grave indents on the settling of the world. 

She opens her window, and the sound of the snow falling is subtle, mysterious, magic. 

Her father is inside.

She sticks her nose out and breathes in the scent of new snow, of blanket grass and the long sleep. 

It was beautiful, she maintains, but now the beast is very lonely, for the snow faeries will not want to fall on gaping ground.

Pushing the lace curtains aside and standing tip toe, she looks deep into the forest, summons up the most magical words she can think of.

"I'm sorry, magical snow faeries and Mr. Lonely Beast. I'm sorry."