Snowfall

Snowfall and the Hollow Echo of Joy The weather forecast predicts snow today. Yesterday, a friend shared her excitement on Instagram about the first snow flurries in Chicago. As I read about it, instead of feeling a twinge of delight, my stomach twisted—not with excitement, but with anxiety. Sana absolutely loved the snow, especially the first snowfall of the season. Her inner child would come alive, squealing in delight, often capturing the moment to share on our family chat. She’d type excited messages, full of wonder, about how magical it all felt. I can still picture her opening the door during our last visit to Brooklyn, stepping outside, and twirling as the snowflakes danced around her. It was such a simple joy, but it lit her up like nothing else. That’s the thing about Sana—she found happiness in life’s smallest, purest moments. The first snowfall. The sparkle of holiday lights. The warmth of giving during the festive season. She loved going out to carefully pick Christmas gifts for everyone, her face alight with excitement over finding just the right thing. Her joy was contagious. But even amidst her love for the season, she had her quirks. There was one Christmas song that she particularly despised—the kind you’d hear in every store on repeat during the holidays. I never understood her disdain for it, but now, hearing that same song stops me in my tracks. Recently, I was at a store when it came on. My heart began to ache, my stomach churned, and I felt an overwhelming wave of sadness. I abandoned my shopping basket and rushed out, unable to face the memories it brought flooding back. Now, snow and the festivities of this season no longer bring the same warmth or joy. They’ve left me hollow. The first snowfall isn’t a magical moment—it’s a sharp reminder of Sana’s absence. Her laughter, her twirls in the snow, her excitement over the simplest things—they’re all missing. The holiday season used to mean joy, but now it feels like a weight I have to bear. And yet, in the midst of the hollow sadness, I try to remember Sana’s light. She taught me that happiness isn’t always found in the grand moments, but in the smallest, simplest ones. While the snow and festive music now remind me of what I’ve lost, they also remind me of Sana’s beautiful, vibrant spirit—a spirit that found magic in the falling snow and joy in giving to others. Even as I grieve, I hold onto that lesson. Because maybe, just maybe, there’s still a way to honor her memory by finding beauty in the snowflakes again.