It's Sunday night, Thanksgiving night actually, and I'm sitting in my Grandma's old, stuffy sitting room. It is full of old photos that are faded and torn around the edges, and dishes-dishes so old, so precious, that we never use them. The fear of breaking them it too great. So they sit safe, but trapped, collecting dust in their prison of the china cabinet.
The sound of my aunt's annoying dogs barking at the door, jumping up at the food and snorting up the crumbs mixes into the conversation that swells around me. From my uncle's low, patronizing voice, to my sister shrill squeal; All are mixed together in many different conversations and arguments. All but mine: I am choosing to ignore them. They always talk about the same things anyways.
Instead, I amuse myself by looking out the window at the fresh snow that is covering the world with a soft, white blanket. The snowflakes are dancing around each other, pirouetting like little icy ballerinas, and when they float into the orange glow of the streetlight, they sparkle. I long to be outside with them. To run and jump and dance alongside them. Really, it's not the snowflakes I long to be with, I really want to be anywhere but here.
My grandmother's voice pulls me out of my daydream "It's ready!". I pull myself out of the stiff chair and follow the herd into the dining room, lured in by the scent of turkey.
All dreams of snowflakes quickly disappear.
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