carmex

My red scarf covers half my face as I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth. I can smell the heavy medicinal menthol of the Carmex I have smothered on my lips with each warm breath that is filtered through the fleece. I pull my hat down more to cover my ears but resist tying the strings because, even in the dead of winter, one still cares if they look like a dork.

I shuffle through the snow, already inches high only hours after maintenance has all gone home for the night. With my hands so tightly jammed in my pockets, if I slip, I will just roll into a ball. This is a constant worry for me; thoughts of a childhood fall involving broken teeth replay in my head and I slip my way over the powder.

The pristine snow glitters off the orange street lamps like the sparkles all the girls wore on their eyelids in elementary school. I can see each individual snow flake on my sleeves, each with its unique formation of crystals holding it perfectly together. They really do mirror the snowflakes we cut out of paper in my Californian elementary school.

I re-adjust my scarf after a few choice snowflakes drift in, only to have the red fleece stick to my Carmexed lips.