Snow
Canon, set just after they come down off the mountain. Longer than a drabble, but still pretty short. Jack thinks about snow.
Snow was falling lazily--those fat, slow flakes that drift and twist and drop softly on the ground. The treetops all had a light dusting, like someone had come through with a bag of sugar and sprinkled it all over.
Jack used to love snow. He used to run out and whoop and holler and dance around, his daddy muttering under his breath about that fool son, not good for nothing, no, not a damn thing. His mama would pause in whatever she was doing, dishes or sewing or what else, and watch from the window, soft smile playing on her lips. No matter how many years Jack lived in that place where snow was all too inevitable, it never got old. He'd be out there in the middle of it every time.
But now, Jack sat on the front steps and watched it come down, just sat and stared, no jumping or spinning or playing. He didn't like snow anymore. It was cold. It was hard to walk in and hard to work in. Jack hated snow with an illogical passion.
Snow had taken Ennis away.
Oh, sure, Ennis had taken himself away on those endless legs, but it was the snow's fault. If not for the snow, they'd have had another month of their bliss on the mountain, and in another month, surely Jack could convince Ennis to...
Well. The snow had come and Ennis had gone and Jack was cold. He stood up, pausing to kick at a pile that had accumulated on the bottom stair before walking into the house, the slump of his shoulders matching the slump of the tree boughs under the new weight, as if he, too, had to carry that piling snow on his back.
Snow was falling lazily--those fat, slow flakes that drift and twist and drop softly on the ground. The treetops all had a light dusting, like someone had come through with a bag of sugar and sprinkled it all over.
Jack used to love snow. He used to run out and whoop and holler and dance around, his daddy muttering under his breath about that fool son, not good for nothing, no, not a damn thing. His mama would pause in whatever she was doing, dishes or sewing or what else, and watch from the window, soft smile playing on her lips. No matter how many years Jack lived in that place where snow was all too inevitable, it never got old. He'd be out there in the middle of it every time.
But now, Jack sat on the front steps and watched it come down, just sat and stared, no jumping or spinning or playing. He didn't like snow anymore. It was cold. It was hard to walk in and hard to work in. Jack hated snow with an illogical passion.
Snow had taken Ennis away.
Oh, sure, Ennis had taken himself away on those endless legs, but it was the snow's fault. If not for the snow, they'd have had another month of their bliss on the mountain, and in another month, surely Jack could convince Ennis to...
Well. The snow had come and Ennis had gone and Jack was cold. He stood up, pausing to kick at a pile that had accumulated on the bottom stair before walking into the house, the slump of his shoulders matching the slump of the tree boughs under the new weight, as if he, too, had to carry that piling snow on his back.