It's that day again, the day we refuse to mark on our calendars as any other day. Yet, as always, I find myself standing here, always here. The cold wind bites hungrily at my coat as I pull it just a bit closer. I am not alone in my insane quest to stand out here and I am thankful, as I am annoyed. Someone else stands beside me bundled in her fuzzy winter coat; the wind snatches at her impeccably long red scarf and makes it dance in the wind silently behind her. We say not a word, as our feet grow cold and numb from the snow. There must be at least half a foot of the white bliss and the sky was (is) grey and heavy with more to come. It was I who spoke first,(Just say, "I spoke first") the white cloud of condensation plumed as I muttered my words through chapped lips. “She always makes it snow.”

Those words hung between us for a few moments before the silence rushed in to fill the void where the words once were. Her eyes stayed fixed on the cold slab of granite at their feet, but she nodded all the same. She had heard but what she said next confused me. “I wonder if she gets cold” Cold? How could she be cold? Its been a few years since she walked, yet alone breathed. I mean, she continued hating the deafening silence. “She always makes it snow, why snow? Why the cold?” she muttered, burying her nose into her scarf for more warmth. She was so annoying when she talked like that, riddles, paradoxes and philosophies. Damn it, she makes more sense than anything sometimes. “I don’t know,” I muttered looking away, unaware I had been looking at her anyway. She shook her head and looked up at the grey sky, the snow drifted down lazily and settles on her upturned face. Quickly flipping up her fuzzy hood she folded her arms against her chest. I looked up and let the snow gently drift down and land on my face, it felt cold, but melted instantly and ran down my cheeks like a fresh water tear.

“Maybe its snowing cause she’s crying,” I muttered still looking up. She, however, scoffed. “You're wrong,” she muttered, I couldn’t see her face but I could only guess there was a smile there. “If she was crying it would be rain, it’s frozen, it’s snowing, she’s laughing.” I scowled; she had to say stupid things she just had to make me feel like they were true. “She’s laughing?” Why would she be laughing, why would she… But she cut me off by putting a hand over my mouth silencing my last words. “Because she wants you to be happy, she doesn’t want you to be sad. She makes it snow so you know that she is laughing to make you smile.” She huffed, condensation clouded for a moment before dissipating into the air. The silence seemed greater now, after she had raised her voice the space now felt empty and void. She took her hand away from my mouth satisfied I wasn’t going to yell at her. Turning away she looked back toward the cold stone and bundled deeper into her coat until her face was just a shadow. (Why is this italicized?)

Looking back toward the cold stone, I gently reached out and traced the letters, my fingers were red with (perhaps "from the" instead of "with") cold, but it felt nice to speak the name in my mind. I turned shoving my cold hand back into my pockets for warmth, and started up the snow-covered path. I heard the crunch of her feet as she started to follow me back to the car. I looked at the ground and snow swirled around us in white majesty. “Yes,” I whispered, “she's laughing." I didn’t look back, but for some reason I had this funny feeling that she was smiling under that fuzzy hood in her shadows.