I woke up, that fateful morning, to find that a soft, powdery blanket of snow covering the world. I stared out my window, thinking about the tiny crystals of ice, and found myself thinking: Great, another day of cold, another week of ice, another day of shoveling and sweeping, another day of misery. Not even the cancellation of school cheered me up, because I knew that I just have to go back eventually.

I got up out of bed slowly and got dressed, dreading the day ahead, wishing that I could curl into a ball and skip it. No more than five minutes later, my mom faithfully called upstairs and told me to get dressed and shovel the driveway. I rolled my eyes, why snow, of all things, especially today?

I drudged down the stairs and got my snow things on, throwing them on without ritual. The snow was still falling as I stepped outside, and I looked at it for a while, letting the tiny crystals land on my face. I grabbed the shovel and started to clear the white powder away. My mind began to wander, thinking about all the times that the snow had fallen and how I had hated it.

Of all the things I inherited from my mother, from my tiny feet to my thick curls, the most apparent was my hatred of winter. Every white Christmas I found myself sitting inside with dear old Mom, nodding to everything she said about how the white blanket was nothing but a nuisance, instead of sledding and making snowmen like the other kids on the block. I was a sponge, absorbing every "all it does is turn to ice and slush" and, "when I retire, I'm moving to Florida to escape this winter nonsense" that I heard. By the time I was eight years old, it was clear that I didn't like the season one bit. While other kids couldn't wait for the cold and darkness- partly for the break, partly for the holidays, but mostly for the unexpected days off, I just said that winter was the worst of all seasons, one that caused black ice and dry skin. I continued this attitude for quite some time, almost eight years.

When I entered sophomore year, I found myself absorbed in my school work, not noticing or caring about anything else. That's why I never noticed him. But he sure noticed me, and before I knew it, I found myself with a new friend. He rode my bus and we would often talk about things on the way home. Then, when winter came, we started to hang out even more. I would never forget this winter, for both the good and the bad.

When I was with him, I don't know, I felt safe. There's no other word for it, I felt safe, secure, confident. When we would walk from our bus stop to our homes, I found that I didn't mind the cold so much. We shared the first snow together, and what fun we had. That morning, we ran outside and threw snowballs at each other until we both were soaked. When we were together, I was happy even when the snow was falling. I had grown to love him, and the season of white.

I began to hit the car with a broom, throwing off the snow. I was angry, angry at the season, the snowflakes, the car, everything. With each hit of the broom, my bottled fury emerged. I was beginning to get strange looks from the neighbors, but I didn't care. All that mattered was that I would never feel that way about a person, or a season, again.

Why? Why did he pick her? What does she have that I don't? Why couldn't he see that I loved him?! Why couldn't he see?

I fell to the cold ground, my jeans soaking up the melting ice. Hot tears came from my eyes, melting the snow they fell to. I realized that I didn't care anymore, not about the snow. All I could think of was him, and that if he was happy with someone else, then I'd just have to accept that and be happy for them.

My original task of cleaning off the car and shoveling the driveway were lost. I picked up the broom and the shovel and headed inside, prepared for whatever was to come next.