FIRST SNOW STEPS OF THE DAY
BY
CLAIRE WALKER

 

I am dying of Cancer. I am 82. My life is short now, like my thoughts. But I have one thing to do before I die.

Laurie has set the alarm.

'3am, grandma,' she smiles at me, 'Snow tonight, it's much warmer.'

George is warmer today. He is the homeless person who lives near the bridge. The ice makes his old clothes heavy; the cold just makes them damp. The ice sends out its army of wolves straight to his brittle bones; the insides sucked out by those ravaging creatures.

George will come looking for me if there is snow, as he knows about my wish since I found out that I was dying. But it's not the wolves that come for me, but shiny black beetles, and now, I can feel their impatience, ready to feed their hungry bellies. But I’m not ready yet, I have one last thing to do.

Laurie awakens me.

Look, grandma.' Through the frosted window, the condensation drizzles into the old wooden frames where the paint is peeling. I see the snow. The Moonlight. Perfect.

There are few lights on in the apartments tonight, but the odd streetlight paves my way. George is waiting for me as I round the corner to the bridge.

'Morning, Helen.' He beckons to me, taking off his woollen grey hat with its rat-bitten holes and fraying wool. He holds it and bows his head as if it were the finest bowler hat, and his old suit were a tailored three piece off Savile Row. I smile and face the entrance to the bridge.

I can now appreciate the whiteness of the scene before me. The cobbled path stones I walk on every day are no longer proud and awkward, but covered in a mass of white carpet.

The clock face on the gothic tower glows iridescent as the moon reflects onto it. 3.30am. I walk towards the bridge, the snow crunching under my boots.

Laurie walks behind me, but keeps her distance. She is near enough in case I fall, but far enough for me to appreciate this alone. I reach the start of the bridge, and the quietness engulfs me, and I catch my breath as the hiss of a cold icy wind tries to throw me off balance.

The river is still and dark, and there is an eerie depth about it. I see the crows move across the top of the river, and a vapour floats up the riverbanks and onto the dimly lit apartments, and high on up to Hradcany Castle. The city is engulfed in total whiteness.

I regard the statues on the bridge, looking prouder and more magnificent than I have ever seen them. The ice makes their darkness glow, their outline so sharp against the white. As I stand at the foot of the bridge for a long time, taking in this cold white ambience, I feel fearful but excited.

Others will be along soon, making their footsteps on this grand bridge, and I contemplate how many people have walked over it. Right now, it seems like no-one, and mine will be the first and only steps on this bridge that must have seen a number so high it is impossible to quantify. The buskers, tourists, children, lovers, workers and citizens of Prague, their bright vivid colours and busy lives too complicated for this surreal and calm existence mapped out in front of me.

It’s time to take those steps. I can hear Laurie calling me, and she seems anxious, yet so far away. I close my eyes, and take in a deep breath of the cold city air. Its burnt orange skyline in Summer flashes through my mind and the lights of the castle send warm waves of energy through my body, keeping the wolves and beetles at bay for a while longer, and as I open my eyes and take the first steps in the snow on the bridge, my footprints press heavy, and I leave a trail of memories behind me.

 

© Claire Walker 2007

 

 

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