Second Snow

Some disorganized thoughts on this weather. TW: animal death.

The flurries start as I’m walking home. I cross the path between ravines, glance up at the streetlight, and notice the tiny wet sparkles in the air— more a mist than anything, but a beautiful one. I look to my left; the flakes aren’t sticking to the ground, but the cold metal of the fence beside me might have collected some. Sure enough, there are a few white spots glittering on the chain links. Just one small cluster, forming a pair of intersecting lines like a cross.

Then they move.

Araneus diadematus: my favorite type of orb weaving spider. It’s commonly known as the cross spider because of the splotchy white crucifix on its orange-brown abdomen. The ones I’ve seen around here tend to be big; this one isno exception. A female, if I had to guess. Her body is the size of a nickel, the legs adding an inch at least. She creeps up the fence slowly, as if it hurts her to move. As if it aches.

Normally the first snow of the season is a special thing for me; I like to stand outside in the cold looking up at the sky, just watching it come down.¹ Not tonight, though. Spiders aren’t built to weather sudden temperature changes. I’m surprised she’s out at all; I thought the last of the orb weavers around here had died with the first cold snap earlier this month. Evidently not. But she doesn’t have long.

I think about bringing her in. They spray these buildings, though, and even if there weren’t a pesticide risk, I don’t think she’d last long around the generally arachnophobic populace of an average dorm hall. Besides, orb weavers don’t thrive in enclosed spaces. No good options. I watch her struggle to cling to the metal— her legs slipp on the links. The flurries intensify, coming down less like mist and more like seafoam. The spider falls.

I cup my ungloved hands, blow warm air over shaking fingers, and reach out to catch her.

It’s an hour later when I finally get inside for the night. I’d stood fighting back tears with the huge spider bumbling between my hoodie sleeves so long that I’m worried I’m close to frostbite— that’s the hypochondria talking, but what if? This is the cycle of things: spiders rule the woods for a few months, then the air gets cold, they lay their eggs, and they die.

But it’s been a long day, a long week, a long month,² and sadness does not discriminate between unexpected and inevitable tragedies. I moved the spider to a tree, where she’d at least have some cover before she passed, but it’s hard not to feel terrible even by the time I’ve curled up in bed for the night, flurries ceased. Already I’ve settled into the frost; the heating in my dorm feels unnatural, uncomfortable. I open both my windows wide and let the cold air push me into sleep.

I woke up at eight in the morning, alarmed. My throat is unusually dry. I was sick two weeks ago— is it back? I sit up; the blanket around my shoulders falls to the surface of the bed. A flash of ice across the back of my neck. And it’s too bright in here. I look to the window. The blinds are down, but the metal is shining with an almost holy light. I reach out one hand and push the shades aside.

Snow. Not flurries, snow, coming down in huge flakes and coating the leaves, branches, ground.

People here get so tired of snow so easily. This weather-based lamenting fills my Instagram feed as I do my morning scroll: the dry air stinging the throat, the brightness of the pure white outside reflecting off itself, the treacherous journey across campus for class, the cold in general. I put on my winter playlist while I get dressed and even that seems to agree— “it’s snowing outside, and I feel like I’m gonna puke.”³

I’m not sure it’s snow itself that evokes this response, though. Yes, it’s uncomfortable to an extent, but if that were the sole reason for its infamy, then I wouldn’t have such complicated feelings about it. I thrive in cold weather; my first thought upon seeing the blizzard outside was to put on some sandals and go lie in it for a minute. But there’s still something about it that off-puts me a little, that sends the anxiety coiled in my chest for the past week into a serpentine motion when I sit at my desk and look out the window.

It hits me when I see my calendar; we’re almost through November. Snow is change— undeniable, tangible change. Last night when I went to sleep, the world was autumnal, the fine mist in the air notwithstanding. Autumn is a transition zone, a liminal space where time seems to slow and speed up on its own terms. Leaves fall; as long as the trees are orange and brown, one has plausible deniability in regards to the forward motion of time. You can put it out of your mind. There is still time left in the month, the year.

But snow makes time physical. It’s hard to forget it’s November when the ground is painted icy white— hard to escape to warmer, happier, calmer times when the air itself is biting you back to the present. And it’s frightening to suddenly have to face it all at once: the world has changed, and you have too.⁴

These days I feel I am an increasingly nervous person. Simply I think these days are just increasingly nervous days themselves. I do not enjoy the feeling of being confronted with all my fears on a daily basis, but that’s the direction it seems I’m going.⁵ The thing about anxiety is that even when it isn’t logical, it doesn’t go away; too often I think we try to escape it by pretending it isn’t around. I don’t have to worry about my final exams if I daydream about the summer— I don’t have to worry about graduating if I keep thinking about freshman year. It snows, and time is real again, and inescapable.

Except that doesn’t have to be a bad thing.

I text my best friend that I’m feeling anxious and he trudges through the snow to meet me at my door. His boots leave little puddles on the tile; they evaporate clean, because the salt’s not out on the sidewalks yet. I remember how, when I was a freshman, the staircase up to my cozy corner room was caked with salt. Footprints over footprints. But no one was forging through snow to get to me— I didn’t ever have people over, and especially not in weather like this. I met Avis last year and it feels like it’s been centuries. There’s snow on the ground and the puddles are clear and I have a best friend. Imagine that.⁶

We hang out for an hour and then he has to go; I feel leagues better already. I lace up my snow boots and get ready to face the cold. I’m halfway down the sidewalk and someone up ahead is smiling at me. The hood of their coat is pulled so snugly to their face that I can’t quite make out the details— then I get closer, and it’s Finn, plodding along through the snow like the tired Minnesotan he is. I don’t know him well. And still he takes the time to wave.

On my worst, most anxious days, I don’t expect people to react to my presence with anything other than annoyance and disgust. Here’s Finn, who, for no reason other than us being in the same cold place at the same cold time, has decided to be kind.⁷

I keep walking. I have my camera to take photos of the icy landscape now that the onslaught of flakes has mostly ceased; the sky is still gray, but it’s not the ominous type, just the still, smooth, pensive type. A single fallen leaf atop an untouched snowbank. A track of footprints. Bare branches pointed upwards in contemplation.

Before I know it, I’ve hit the chain link fence where I stood for an hour last night. I double back to the tree to which I relocated that spider, fingers crossed in the deep pockets of my winter coat.

I don’t see her, though. There’s a stray line of silk trailing away from the bend in the branch where I left her, but no orb weaver to be seen, and no tell-tale curled-up leaves where she might be hiding. I didn’t have high hopes, but I can’t help but be a little disappointed. I don’t want her to have died, even though logic tells me that’s what happens to spiders in the winter, even though I was as considerate to her as I could be. I liked seeing the orb weavers on their webs in autumn; I liked the jumpers in the bushes in the summer. I don’t know if I’m ready for them to be gone.

“Cara?” someone says. I turn around. It’s Maya. My first friend on campus, and still a beacon of light all this time later.⁸ “I thought that was you.”

We walk together until I have to go to class. There’ll be spiders in the spring, and the first snow was already spoiled; for now, I want to relish the second.⁹

Into the second snow I go.

1. Side note: snow was very rare where I grew up. Once I found out it had snowed in my hometown for the first time in the season while I was spending the night a few miles away. I cried so hard I got dehydrated.

2. Everyone I know has been struggling lately. If you, reader, are among the strugglers: I am sending my absolute best wishes. We’ll make it through. I swear.

3. From “Snow Song” by Blake Rouse. One of my favorite songs ever.

4. Honorary song mention: “Landslide” by Fleetwood Mac. Obviously. The snow imagery in that song is especially poignant for me after writing all this.

5. If you patronize me in the comments section, I’m going to be sad. Please do not treat me like an infant because I have OCD! Engage with my ideas!

6. I don’t have to imagine it. Thank you Avis, for everything.

7. Finn, if you’re reading this, you’re the best. Tell Kiera I say hi.

8. Maya, I don’t even know if you read these. If you do… I appreciate you more than you’ll ever know! I treasure our friendship even though I feel like we don’t get to see each other all that often! Best wishes!

9. I couldn’t make it work in the post itself proper, but I want to offer a special thanks to Kiera. I’m writing this at 12:50 in the morning; it has been a long, long day, and I know it has been for you, too. I do not know how to articulate this. A full moon breaking through the clouds. A fox turning to look you in the eye before bounding away. A very friendly stray cat and an unexpected meadow of wildflowers in your favorite color. I hope this makes sense. Thank you.