I Know

By Danielle Halnen

It's midnight, and I should be asleep, my parents expect me to be asleep, but they don’t know what I know, and what I know is that the snow will be too high to go to school tomorrow, so I know they will get a call around 5:00 in the morning telling them that I should not go to school because school is canceled. 

So I stay awake to watch the silvery blanket slowly form over the yard, and the driveways, and street, and I know I should probably go to bed, because I want to be up early enough to see the plows go through it, pushing the snow to the side of the road, the white flakes taking specs of dirt with it, turning it to cookies and cream.

 I listen for the flakes to hit the ground just like it does when it rains, and I strain my ears with the effort, but I’m able to hear a soft whisper of whooshing outside my window, reminding me of my little sisters whispered dreams that she tells me when she’s half asleep before she rolls over again, and she asks me the next morning to tell them to her because she forgot. 

She was sad to see that her favorite tree to sit under had lost all of its leaves during fall, and no matter how much I tried to convince her they would come back, she didn’t believe me, but what she doesn’t know that I know is that this tree is my favorite when the bare windy branches outstretched themselves like arms hold the snow above the ground because it looks like the leaves have come back pure white, glistening in the silver moonlight, and the magic leaves stay for only a couple of days like a dusting of powdered sugar before the sun licks it away.