The Gift of Snowflakes
written by: Robert L. Ferrante
There was a pimple on the old man’s throat, and he felt it with his long, bony fingers. “Cancer,” he thought, and he was afraid. Then, he thought of Millie and smiled. He would tell Millie when she came home from shopping. She would take a sharp scalpel from the kitchen drawer and operate, tuck the sheets in tight, and he would close his eyes and once again arm-wrestle death in a dream.
He heard the wind become a howling ghoul outside the half-frosted window across from his bed and saw it whip the snow into swirls of submission. “Winter,” he said to himself, shivering. “Why does winter always come?” he whispered and turned away from the window, burying his face in the stack of pillows that propped him up. He rubbed his nose back and forth against the soft one on top. Then he snorted. He snorted again, giggling at the sound. It was lonely in the white-sheeted bed during winter.
Summer was much better with the window open and sweet smells coming in from the flowers Millie planted in the faded green window box. Once in a while, a sparrow would visit the sill and look at the old man with its little eyes. He would tell it about when he was young and fought in a great war, and the bird would seem to listen, cocking its head from side to side, until it sensed the cat and fled home.
Martin picked up a thick stick and resumed whittling with a steak knife. The shavings scattered off the front page of the morning newspaper spread across his blanketed lap, but Millie would pick them up. She’d rake the bed clean; no splinter would wait in the night to stab him. Millie would see to that. He whittled carefully. Suddenly, he hurled the piece of wood against the wall as pain gripped his shins and back. The canary in its tarnished silver cage that dangled from an equally tarnished silver stand jumped off her perch and began chirping loudly and hopping around the cage. The old man laughed and laughed until tears rolled down his cheeks.
The canary’s wild chirps woke the cat sleeping on the rocking chair next to the bed where Millie usually sat. The old man’s eyes flashed because he loved the glistening black fur. He put out his hand to stroke it, but the sleep-fogged cat swiped at the blurry thing that came toward it. The old man screamed and drew back his bleeding hand. He licked the wound and called out for Millie, but she was at Walmart.
Millie slowly made her way along the snowy concrete sidewalk leading to the nearby store, pulling her faux-fur collar closer to her neck and adjusting the black, braided cable knit peak hat against the windswept snow. Her worried daughter had Fedex-ed the brown, quilted down puffer coat with a birthday card in which she wrote, “You need to keep warm in that New England winter, Mommie. Wish you both would come to live here in sunny California, Love, Lydia, Greg, and Lori.” Millie had not had the heart to tell her daughter the stark results from Martin’s PET-scan last week. She and her family should enjoy the holidays. There was plenty of time to talk about that after the New Year.
In the crowded store, Millie selected the few items she needed, including a small gift box, and then hurried home. She did not like to leave Martin alone for too long.
Millie entered the kitchen, lugging the plastic shopping bag of groceries and carefully keeping the box level, to which she had added a red bow she had kept in her coat pocket. Martin heard his wife and cried out. She dropped the satchel on the retro kitchen table, quickly stuffed the box into the freezer, and shuffled to him.
She saw at once his scraped hand hanging loosely over the edge of the bed and the small spots of red that had dotted the white sheet. Millie stroked his forehead, offering soothing reassurances. Once Martin seemed more peaceful, she rushed to get gauze and antiseptic. She tenderly bandaged the wound, sat on the edge of the bed, and held Martin in her arms. He snuggled his head against her breasts, while she gently rocked him.
Millie would make some hot soup to further comfort him. Placing Martin’s head gently on the pillow after he had dosed off, she picked up the newspaper and the few shavings from the blanket and carried them into the kitchen. She smiled as she stored the groceries in the refrigerator and pantry. They would have a nice Christmas Eve dinner with roasted chicken, red potatoes, and creamed corn. For dessert, she had bought half a crumbed apple pie, Martin’s favorite, topped with a scoop of French vanilla ice cream. She had put two dollars aside from Martin’s Social Security check each month to pay for the feast.
With some pain in her arthritic fingers, she opened a can of navy bean soup and heated it on the four-burner gas stove. On a rose-colored Depression-era plate, she placed four saltine crackers and poured the steaming soup into a matching bowl. She checked to see if Martin was awake and carried the lunch to his bedside on a flowered plastic tray, careful not to spill a drop. Martin accepted each spoonful Millie raised to his lips with a smile, or an audible “ah,” but ate none of the crackers.
When Marin drifted off to sleep again, Millie ate a cup of soup and a few crackers herself at the kitchen table. She washed the dishes, the spoons, and the pot and checked the box in the freezer. Returning to the bedroom, she adjusted the blanket to cover Martin’s chest and sat in the rocker. She lay the cat in her lap, rhythmically stroked it, and closed her eyes. She was tempted to get the family photo album, which captured their lives together, but the trip to the supermarket had tired her. She was content to turn the pages of the album in her mind, photos she had reviewed with Martin or by herself so many times.
When Martin stirred and appeared to be waking up, Millie lowered the cat to the floor and went to get an old book. The cat’s rubbing against her leg made her lift it to her lap again. As soon as Martin opened his eyes, she began to read a story aloud and, while she read, tinkled a tiny aluminum bell she had bought at Dollar General. It was the story of a proud and happy bell that hung around the neck of a donkey, which had helped soothe Baby Jesus to sleep in the manger on that first Christmas night. Eyes fully opened, Martin sang “Jingle Bells” softly to the rhythm of the ringing bell.
When the story ended, Martin smiled at his wife. “Millie,” he said, “I have a Christmas present for you.” Millie’s eyes lit up.
“Oh, my!” she said, “What can it be? Where can it be?”
Martin pointed to the far corner. “There,” he said with excitement, “over there underneath birdie’s cage.”
Millie stood up quickly, forgetting the cat, which leapt to the floor and scampered into the kitchen. She picked up the half-whittled piece of wood. “It’s lovely, just lovely,” she said and pressed the short stick to her breast. “What a beautiful bird.”
Millie came to Martin and kissed him tenderly on the lips. “Thank you, thank you, my dearest,” she said softly, looking into his eyes. Then, she said, “I have something for you, too.”
Millie went into the kitchen and came back with the small, flat box. It was cold from being in the freezer. The red bow was crinkly stiff. The old man eagerly opened the box.
“Snow!” he shouted as he scooped up a handful. “I haven’t felt snow in an elephant’s age.”
“I was thinking snowflakes,” she said. “Did you know, Martin, that no two snowflakes are the same? Like there is no one else in the whole world like you, my dearest one.”
Martin frowned, staring at the box, which was getting wet. “The snow is leaving us, Millie. It’s turning into mush. Millie lifted the box and saw that the melted snow had not wet the blanket. “It’s okay, dear; I’ll go out and get you some more.”
As she started to stand, Martin took hold of her forearm, halting her rise. “I don’t want other snowflakes, Millie. Those were enough. Those were like us, no two like us in the whole world.”
Millie smiled and gently moved Martin’s head against her breast. She hummed her favorite noel, “Silent Night,” stroking the back of Martin’s head paying no mind to the box of snow which began to drip melted snowflakes into her lap.
- The Gift of Snowflakes - December 23, 2025
