by Carole Greenfield

It never snows all night anymore. I open the front door to feel the cold, witness the green-tinged gray of an about-to-snow sky, smell woodsmoke in the evening air. When my husband asks if we have to watch with the door open, I tell him yes, we need to watch snow fall without screens before our eyes, without delusions of it lasting the night, even as we tell ourselves we will always have what we need, that good will triumph over evil and snow will fall on Christmas Eve, covering the ground and the truth of what breaks our hearts when we can’t hide from it.

Carole Greenfield grew up in Colombia and resides in New England, where she teaches multilingual learners at a public elementary school. Her work has appeared in Still Point Arts Quarterly, The Plentitudes, Amethyst Review and other publications.