Before the World Wakes Up

Michael went outside at 4:00, just like he did every morning. The adults were not yet awake, so they couldn't tell him not to play outside. The cold air nipped at his nose, and he felt as though icicles were congealing in his nostrils within minutes. He didn't mind. In fact, he loved the winter, loved the white powder that covered the hills. The red sun was slowly but steadily climbing above the horizon. There was time.

Michael made what he called snow angels and stuck out his tongue to catch what he called snowflakes. The trees, dead and dying, were all frosted up. He touched the boles, rubbing them like bellies, feeling the slippery coldness of them. Michael sometimes wished other children were around, at least ones who were brave like him and didn't do everything their parents told them to do.

This was winter. The North Wind blustered and bit his way through the vacuum of air. It reminded him of home.

Home, where he didn't need to steal out at 4:00 in the morning to play. Home, where adults would play with their children as well. Home, where an imagination was applauded and pessimism rejected.

He looked down at his hands, red with cold. They were also wrinkled, despite his youth.

The lights in the house went on, muted by curtains. Michael mentally cursed, wished there could be more time. Time had passed him by far too quickly.

Suddenly, his father opened the door and called out to him.

"Michael, I told you to stop playing out there! Get inside, now!"

The lonely child came in from the snow that was really ashes falling. From the air that could hardly be called cold. From the trees that were not there. Michael dreamed, and Michael cried.