"Snow Globe" - Sean Reichard
There was a storm outside like the shaking of a snow globe. Flakes flew on the wind violently. The weather was in the hand of a small child who knew no restraint. Where was grandmother when you needed her?
But I didn’t want to go outdoors. I was waiting indoors.
In my room were two beds, the bottom one messy — efforts to keep it in order long ago relinquished to apathy. The top one was still in decent shape. The mattress cover, at any rate, wasn’t hanging loose. Behind me were the windows, a lamp, and a Bose dock. It was silent though. That was on purpose.
The lock between the left jamb of the door kept it open. All the while waiting.
I had no clock in sight. My watch was by my dresser. Still I did not move. I was waiting. Staying in the same spot optimized my waiting. And I didn’t want a clock. The thought of numbers mocked me.
What I needed was an hourglass, not to keep the time, not to give my mind a frame of reference for the time slowly slouching away; I needed an hourglass to hurl at the wall and watch the sand try to fly as the glass falls.
I stared outside. The storm raged. Damn this snow globe! Every dream decanting from myself, delivered up, hit the curves, bounced back, to smack me in reproach. It was contemptible weather. This weather knew nothing of love.
Still I waited. I couldn’t even close the door. I wouldn’t close the door. Closing the door spelled its own consequences. But the door like any door really should have been closed long ago. It should be closed.
People passed by, so gregarious and very unavoidable, impossible to ignore. They were going to their rooms. They had the liberty to do so. But I was tired of them. How I wanted to close the door. And the lamp with its snow mimicking bulb and the mute sound dock: they and the damn weather were conspiring against me.
The waiting was unbearable.
To the outdoors: stop storming so. To the small child holding the weather: stop shaking that snow globe. Or drop it, damn you, drop it so the winds stop and the snow will stop swirling around. What did it matter if glass larger than me, sharp and hydra like, fanged me? What of it? I was miserable; I was pierce-able. Maybe if the snow globe broke the ensuing vacuum would obliterate everything. Me. Well what of it? I was sick and heavy with waiting, the intolerable, invidious, insidious, impossible wait—
The door opened. She returned.
“Sorry I was so long.”
“It’s no problem.”
She closed the door. She sat beside me.
“Here, turn that lamp on.”
I do it.
“Good,” she said. “Now put on Nico.”
And as we settled into each other I saw the room around me in a different light.
There was a sort of coalition between the spiraling snow outside, the arching lamp & white bulb, and “These Days” being sung by an incandescent German to make life beautiful as a denizen of the snow globe.
Sean Reichard is a freshman studying Environmental Studies and English.