The light powdery snow which started falling down when I left home, had turned into wet flaky snow when I came out from the shop. I still cannot get used to the beauty of snow even though it’s been five years since I have moved to this country.
Although I shake it off a few times, the snow keeps trying to accumulate on my shoulders and my hat. I look up at the black sky and think: this massive amount of snow was brought from the warm sea which is in the south, such as a place where I used to live.
The snow evenly falls on, no matter whether you are rich or poor, no matter whether you are happy or lonely. Onto the gardens of the richest people, onto the shoulders of drunk homeless people, onto the backs of hairy dogs and onto the children’s gloves which are stretched towards the sky.
I, who am tempted to play with the snow just like children or dogs, pretend to be a smart mature woman, holding a bottle of wine in my arms and am heading home.