Addie Woltil

A photo I took after it snowed, I still don’t understand anything about it

Each and every snowflake is different.

This is a fact that we all learn in elementary school, and yet, quite frankly, I don’t think I’ll ever honestly believe it. The thought that the infinite number of snowflakes that fall gracefully out of the sky is wholly unique seems impossible.

I’m sure hidden between the frost and intricate designs is a beautiful life message about how we’re all unique and special in our own way, but that’s not what I like most about them. 

I like the way they fall.

Not so much fall as they do float and glide through the wind and onto the ground as they make the fluffy foundations that will turn into a lopsided snowman. Snow will never cease to amaze me. And maybe it sounds stupid because there’s undoubtedly scientific reasoning behind all the wonders I have about them, but I prefer that they have the mystery.

How does snow stack so high if each individual snowflake is so minute and tiny? How is some snow soft and some hard? How is it possible that each snowflake that blows through the wind has distinctive patterns and points that make it different from any other snowflake before it?

I remember making snowflakes as a kid. I folded each piece of paper and meticulously cut lines, hoping it would turn into something beautiful. It never quite held up to the standards I set for it and myself. Not unique enough, too jagged, too simple, too plain.

I would throw each and every imperfect one away and would save only my favorites. Sometimes, I wonder if I’ve changed so much to the point where little me would be disappointed with the snowflakes I keep now.

I still judge each imperfection and silently correct each error, but I think I’ve learned to accept some mistakes; I could tell myself that having flaws makes it perfect, but honestly, I don’t think I believe that. This is the fifth time I’ve started writing this story because the words didn’t flow just right each time. I could pretend that I’m happy with what it is now, and that’s the reason I’m not currently staring at an empty white doc, but that’s not it.

Accepting imperfections is a part of life, I guess, but I don’t think I’ll ever get over it because I just forgot a comma, and that means I might as well start this sentence over. I wish I saw everything I made as a snowflake, but I think I am one because I can’t handle the errors and trip-ups I continue to make.

I am fragile because, oh my God, I think I might scream if I see another underlined red word, and this isn’t cohesive, but this is the best I can do, so I have nothing to do except be content with my work. The snow envelops all surrounding sounds, and I simply live in the silence of my own thoughts, each padded with another about what I should’ve thought differently. 

I am monitored and policed by my own head, and I don’t know how to imagine a life without it because it is me. I watch as the snowflakes fall, and I try to look closely enough to notice what makes them unique in hopes I’ll unlock some secret to perfection, but I don’t think it exists.

So I’ll just sit silently and wish I could create something as gorgeous as them.