“I’m not sure snow has much of a memory,” Mama tells me.
It snowed hard all night, and when I peeked out the window this morning, everything was covered in a thick fluffy blanket, all white and pure, erasing everything else—footprints and roads, any sign of people. It’s like the world’s been reborn, all fresh and new. There will be no school today, and though I love Miss Delilah, I love staying home with Mama more.
Mama and I are curled up, pressed against each other like twin commas. I know about commas and periods and question marks. Miss Delilah taught me. Some books I can read real good. Some, like the Bible, are a puzzle to me. Miss Delilah also told me about souls, how every person has one.
“God breathes them into us,” she said.
I asked her about animals, and she said no, but I think she’s wrong. I think everything must have a soul and a memory, even tigers and roses, even snow. And, of course, old Shep, who spends his days sleeping by the fire, eyes closed, paws moving, because he’s still a young dog in his dreams. How can you dream if you don’t have a soul?
The covers are tented up over me and Mama’s heads, and it’s all dark, like we’re deep underground. Animals in a den. All warm and snuggly. Sometimes we play hide-and-seek, and I love to hide beneath the covers or under her bed. I’m small and can fit into tight places. Sometimes it takes Mama a long, long time to find me. My favorite place to hide is Mama and Papa’s closet. I like the feeling of their clothing brushing my face and body, like I’m walking through a forest thick with soft trees that smell like home: like soap and woodsmoke and the rose-scented lotion Mama sometimes uses on her hands. There is a loose board in the back of the closet that I can swing out and crawl through; then I come out in the linen closet in the hall, under the shelves with extra sheets, towels, and quilts. Sometimes I sneak through the other way and go into their closet and watch Mama and Papa while they sleep. It makes me feel strange and lovely and more like a shadow than a real girl—awake when no one else is, me and the moon smiling down on Mama and Papa while they dream.
Now Mama reaches around, takes my hand, and spells into it with her pointer finger: “R-E-A-D-Y?”
“No, Mama,” I say, wrapping my fingers around hers. “Just a little longer.”
Mama sighs, pulls me tighter. Her nightgown is worn flannel. I work my fingers over its soft folds.
“What did you dream, my darling girl?” she asks. Mama’s voice is as smooth as good linen.
I smile. Take her hand and spell into it “B-L-U-E D-O-G.”
“Again? How lovely! Did you ride on his back?”
I nod my head. The back of it bumps against Mama’s chinny-chin-chin.
“Where did he take you this time?” She kisses the back of my neck, her breath tickling the little hairs there. I told Miss Delilah once that we all must be part animal, because we have little bits of fur all over our skin. She laughed and said it was a foolish thought. Sometimes when Miss Delilah laughs at me I feel tiny, like a girl just learning her words.
“He took me to see a lady with tangled hair who lives inside an old hollow tree. She’s been dead a long time. She’s one of the winter people.”
I feel Mama stiffen. “Winter people?”
“That’s what I call them,” I say, turning to face her. “The people who are stuck between here and there, waiting. It reminds me of winter, how everything is all pale and cold and full of nothing, and all you can do is wait for spring.”
She looks at me real funny. Worried-like.
“It’s all right, Mama. The lady I met isn’t one of the bad ones.”
“Bad ones?” Mama asks.
“Sometimes they’re angry. They hate being stuck. They want to come back but they don’t know how, and the more they try, the more angry they get. Sometimes they’re just lonely. All they want is someone to talk to.”
The covers fly off our heads, and the cold in the room hits my body and makes my skin prickle like it’s being poked by a thousand tiny icicles.
“Time to get up,” Mama says, her voice higher than it should be. “After chores and breakfast, maybe you and I can bake.”
Mama’s up now, smoothing the covers, fluttering around like a busy bird.
“Molasses cookies?” I ask, hopeful. They’re my very favorite food on earth. Shep’s, too, because now that he’s so old he gets to lick out the bowl. Papa says we spoil that dog, but Mama tells him Shep has earned it.