REMEMBER

Winter Mornings

Eggs and prepacked sausages sizzled on the stove while mumbling frustrations came from the living room of a video game gone bad. 

Molly—a pleasantly overweight dog who had a length of twice her width—was staring longingly out at the flurrying snow, peeping out of the screen door. She would run out, then in and out again in a constant state of flux, trailing wetness wherever she went. It made the linoleum flooring of the kitchen horribly slippery, but we paid little mind. 

My sister still dozed downstairs; she didn’t enjoy breakfast, so no one bothered to wake her yet. She was like her mother in that way, eating once or maybe twice a day in a massive amount. My dad was adding dishes to the sink—it was my job to clean all of them, but I’d do them later. Dirty dishes towered beside the sink lying in wait, mainly coffee mugs and empty soda cans. My father would take the cans out to the garage and smash them, recycling them and getting a few cents or whatever it was. He had a knack for recycling anything and everything he found. He was frugal like that, always looking for money we didn’t need.

Outside, it had begun to snow, flakes falling languidly. It was a pleasant shift from the ash that sifted down only a few days prior. A big wildfire had hit some towns up west, took out a couple dense neighborhoods. The smoke had looked like storm clouds or dust being kicked up in the foothills, but then we smelt it. The falling ash was a product of flames mixing with dried grass, wooden siding, and photographs of families. Really put stuff into perspective. An hour more of that wind-fanned-fire and that ash would’ve been our home, too. 

Molly was still staring out the door, but standing up, this time. She really liked it when the snow started falling. I think we all did.