Suki and the Slow Snowflake

The first snow of the year came at bedtime, which Suki thought was very poor timing.

"Just one," she said, at the back door, in her pyjamas and one mitten. "I just want to catch one."

"One," said Dad. "Then bed."

So Suki stood on the step with her mitten held out flat, like a small yellow plate, and waited.

The snow was not in a hurry. It came down the way feathers come down, turning and tipping, taking the long way. Big flakes landed on the path and on the bin lid and on Bear, who was standing next to her, and who did not mind because polar bears are built for it.

But none of them landed on the mitten.

Then Suki saw it. One flake, bigger than the others, coming down right above her. Right above the mitten. All it had to do was keep going.

"Down," whispered Suki.

The flake came down. Then a little breath of wind came round the corner of the house and the flake went sideways, and up, and did a slow somersault, and settled back on the air as if it had all the time in the world.

"Down," said Suki. "Down, down..."

It came lower. It was just above her head now. She could see its arms, six of them, lacy and white, turning gently.

"Nearly!"

The flake drifted left. Suki moved the mitten left. The flake drifted right. Suki moved the mitten right. The flake hung there, right over her nose, as if it was choosing.

"Please," said Suki.

"It's not being naughty," said Dad, from the doorway. "It's just light. Light things take longer."

Suki knew about light things. A leaf. A feather. The seed from a dandelion. They never went straight down. They went wherever the air felt like, and the air, this evening, felt like being slow.

"Down," she said again, but softer this time, because shouting at a snowflake is like shouting at a bubble.

Down it came. Past her nose. Past her chin. Past the top button of her pyjamas.

"Nearly..."

Bear held his breath, which polar bears can do for ages.

And the snowflake, having taken its time, having looked at the whole garden from above and decided that of all the places to land, a small yellow mitten was the best, came to rest in the very middle of her palm, and stayed.

Suki did not move. She did not even breathe. It sat there, perfect, every one of its six arms, for as long as a snowflake can sit on a warm mitten, which is not very long at all.

Then it was a drop of water. Then it was a tiny dark patch on the yellow wool.

"Got it," she whispered.

"Bed," said Dad, but kindly.

Suki went in. She left her one mitten on the radiator and Bear by the window to watch the rest come down. In bed, under the covers, she could still feel the exact place on her palm where it had landed.

Outside, the snow kept falling, slow, slow, taking the long way, and Suki went down into sleep the same way, turning a little, tipping a little, in no hurry at all.

Nearly.

Nearly.

There.