Snowflakes

Andy's comment on my blog posting about loss has me thinking about snowflakes now.
He is so right, none are the same, they are all different.
It reminded me of the first time I saw a snowflake.
I was about nine years old. It never snowed much in San Antonio when I was growing up. They actually sent us home early from school so we could play in the snow -- before it melted.
I remember it was a Friday afternoon, likely in January or February. I remember telling my Mom that the yard looked like someone had spilled a bunch of raspas, or snowcone shavings, in the grass.
She laughed and said if I caught snowflakes in my hands, I'd notice that they are all different. Of course, I paid attention for a second, agreed, but never really noticed it. I just wanted to play before it became slush.
Years later, Mom crocheted snowflakes for our Christmas tree. She made four of them, for each kid. We each had one to hang, whichever one we grabbed first.
"Mom, they aren't the same," I told her.
With that mom look, she said, "Mija, they aren't supposed to be!"
It was Christmas 1991, seven months after Mom died, Daddy sat the four of us down at the house so we could divide up the Christmas decorations. This was Mom's favorite holiday.
Boxes and boxes of glass balls that my parents had collected through their 45 years of marriage.
Lights. Angels. Cheesy paper cutouts with glitter that each of us made through the years during school. The four snowflakes that my mother crocheted
years earlier.
I don't remember which of us said it, but it was noticed.
"None of these are the same." They are unique.
It's kind of like the four of us, I thought, as I sat next to my siblings, reminiscing with some tears about Mom and the decorations we sifted through.
You're right, Andy. There's no right answer for how to deal with loss. It's the memories that get us through, help us endure. Never forget.
So, it's really not about snowflakes, I guess. It's about people.
Thanks, Andy, for reminding me of the things my Mom would have said to me.
I am listening.


QoD: How many times have you thrown away cards or letters written to you by your parents?
(Well, stop it. I wished I would have saved one thing, anything, my mother wrote me.)