Snow

February 3, 2017
The snow fell fast and heavy this morning, obscuring every surface that was not shielded from it by the trees. My father and I were the first to tread upon the bright, pristine blanket that seemed to have cleansed the world of all its dirt and roughness; I felt guilt for disrupting the beautiful, smooth, vast expanse of snow, but I had to reach my destination and some things would always be sacrificed for the sake of progress. As we drove, I realized that it was snowing all the way to UBC, where Eugene Onegin would be performed that night… how coincidental. The snow on the ground around me was as perfect as the snow on the poster for the opera. There was a strange feeling of descending melancholy in the sky, which no one else seemed to notice; was this good or bad? I considered myself a jovial person; this was a rare moment of sadness. I continued to brood throughout the day while I worked, periodically staring out the window at the soft gray sky and the falling flakes of forlornness. The snow was a tribute to someone, someone dead, I knew not who, although I did—even if I dared to think it was for him, I could not say it.
It kept snowing until night, as I am typing these words.

Falling fast and forlornly, floating flakes
Drift aimlessly on the uneven ground
And even when clumps drop as treetops shake
They plummet without uttering a sound

A silent scream that echoes past the years
Tears through my mind and rends my thoughts apart
This alien sadness elevates my fears
Inscribing the locked shadows of my heart

My fevered fingers flutter o’er the keys
Unknowing what it means of which I write
It is for him, but there emerged unease
For I must not commiserate his plight

Is this for him? Or is it just for me:
A pitiful cry of melancholy?