Snowdrift

My phobia started a long time ago, in a way I wasn't expecting. I guess that's just how it is. You live your life as it should be: a light-hearted boy, not thinking about anything, not focused on the future, enjoying every day, the sun and random sweets. And then suddenly, something out of the ordinary happens, and you don't remember how it was before.

Now, I guess things are pretty good, all things considered. It's been ages since I moved south. I live a pretty simple, quiet life, as far as that applies to my existence.

In short, I'm afraid of winter. Or rather what it brings: snowdrifts. Probably sounds silly or at least funny, but what can I do? My personal thing. Of course, this is not the life I dreamed of when I was a kid. I thought I'd grow up to be a pilot, or at least something close to one – an aeronautical engineer or maybe a dispatcher, but it didn't turn out so well. I'm about to turn thirty, and I haven't even started living yet. Actually, I finished when I was thirteen.

***

It was right after my birthday, in the winter. I decided to take a walk through the snow-covered town where we lived with my mother at the time, towards the park. To me, it seemed like adults do this mysterious thing from time to time, and I thought, well, why not? So, I started doing it: walking with an expression in my eyes that said I was thinking about something else, as if there were something more to life than this very walk.

It was getting evening. Large unhurried snowflakes were falling, as if they were hanging peacefully on air invisible threads. It created a general fairy-tale impression of a patterned, barely swaying curtain, light and inviting. There wasn't a soul in the street: only me and good-natured snow, which was understandable. In the long post-New Year's holidays, everyone was at home: no people rushing from work or screaming schoolchildren. It was so peaceful and quiet.

I wandered, picking up snow with my feet, trying to look at myself, breathing in the frosty air through my slightly stinging nostrils, and thinking that it was very cold, and that and that I should’ve worn gloves. Suddenly, I saw a strange boy on a bench in the park. He was younger than me, with bright blue eyes, a face flushed with frost, and strawy, unruly hair. He was wearing a light jacket and a single glove. He looked like a gosling.

It was strange that I didn't know him: in our neighbourhood, it was rare to meet an unfamiliar face. All this, coupled with his funny appearance, made me slow down my already slow step. It was as if I hesitated, and without knowing why, I felt embarrassed by my hesitation. The gosling, who immediately pulled himself up, swung his legs vigorously, and stared at me with a wide grin and a gap between his teeth.

I immediately thought about what he was happy about on such a freezing cold day. The boy was just sitting there on the icy bench, made tsk sounds through the gap in his teeth, and seemed to be waiting for me.

– Dreaming? – he either asked or stated. It sounded like we were old mates.

I thought about it a lot later. Somehow, at that moment I didn't find this behaviour strange. It's almost like a dream when you think everything is natural when you're inside, and only when you wake up do you realise how illogical it is.