Miracle in a Faux-Wood Den

By Steph Rantz

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Many years ago, it snowed inside my parents’ house—in the family room where there was a Christmas tree. None of us ever thought to move into another room. At first, we greeted the miracle with great levity; it was Christmas after all, and so we laughed and feasted on snowflakes. Some tasted like little tin stars and others like old laundry pegs; still others were like stale chamomile flowers that had been left out in a dusty room. Eventually our pallors paled, iced over and we just sat around staring at each other as the snow coned around us. Our noses turned bright orange. I could see neighbors passing by outside the window, smiling and pointing from their sleighs. I’m not sure if I really had on a top hat or if my brows had just grown out; maybe I’m only imagining that part. Eventually, things began to thaw and I left the house. There’s still a big beige wet spot on the sofa where my sister once sat. My dad just kind of clumped up and left a pile of his gray sweats like dirty snow. Unfortunately my mother stayed frosty the rest of her life.