Cold sheets cradled the back of my neck, clinging to the traces of frozen sweat left behind as last night’s nightmares crept along the windowsill. My eyes remained glued to my blueberried knuckles as I tried to hold on to the lingering scent of sleep slowly drifting away from my nose like dust bunnies. My mother’s white blouse drooped down my right shoulder, still smelling of baby powder and bleach, still littered with moth bites between the stitches, still just as soft as the day she gave it to me, like the skin of a newborn’s cheeks.

I coddled my shoulder with my left hand, rubbing back and forth to soothe the cold creeps and whisper to the veins to go back into hiding. I was pale, nearly translucent. I was diagnosed with albinism at age six, and my mother always called me ‘sniffles’ as she swore she could see right through my skin like a thin tissue. She told me that she swore she could see each nerve and cell, to ice my skin like the doctor suggested, but I liked seeing the blues and purples swim under my skin sometimes. They looked like the moonjellies I would see in the aquarium as a little girl, pressing my nose up to the glass, breathing greetings to each one as they bubbled past until I was hushed and seized by my wrist to leave. I would never tell her that, though. I would let the ice packs melt under my pillow and hold them to my knees, praying that she wouldn’t notice the new blackberries and lavenders on my upper thigh.

I whispered goodbyes to the veins on my hands, as the cold of the morning wore off and my skin returned back to its natural bleached state. The grape and raspberry stains faded away, and the discs of my spine crawled back into place.

I gently lured my tissue paper skin off of the sheets that were stuck to the cotton like syrup and stretched my tired bones, reaching bony fingers to the sky, to the clouds, stars, and snow, what my mom told me to look up at as I leaned back for her to wash my hair with vanilla shampoo. I whispered “good morning” to the pine trees, breathed in lonely, iced air and let the cold of the bathroom tile bubble under my feet.

As I began picking up a stained toothbrush, reminiscence coated my skull with boiled sweets. I felt her fingertips on my back, her white knuckles in my hair, her heat-filled honey breath in my ear saying, “don’t forget to wash the dreams from your mouth before starting your day, sweet girl.” I let my eyes become rain clouds, rain clouds under periwinkle pupils, let them drip down my cheeks, drain their thoughts, and stain my skin with clear paths of glitter. Staring into the sink, I glazed my teeth with mint. I swirled the paste in my mouth, letting the clean swim under my gums, and looked up to the mirror.

The sticky fog in which my brain tended to find itself pushed a milky headache around my scalp in the mornings. Whites and greys fogged the water clouding the sink, film pressed up against my eyes that I could never seem to remove since the day she passed. The reflection looked fake. I stared back at the drained eyes, pupils like flakes of pepper, that once creamy vanilla scent of my shampoo turned black and spoiled like the milk I left in the pantry above the fly-ridden fruit.

Breathy secrets prickled in my ears, lemon hair and baby powder promises sluggishly trailed up my back. My eyes wandered back down to my arm. I let my eyes defocus when looking at the paper cut that dripped pale blood, nearly looking like water. I cut it about two days ago, it still hadn’t stopped bleeding.

“Clean it out, sniffles.”

Rubbing alcohol caked my sinuses, stung my nerves and reminded me of doctor’s offices and hospitals. The smell of the cold gauze that you would sneeze to just before your little veins received a kiss from a needle. The white gowns with snowflakes on them that wilted down my shoulder, the plastic tube they twirled up my nose and into my stomach, telling me to stop coughing and gagging so I could breathe in yogurt-like fluid they refused to tell me the contents of. I remember early mornings, a nurse's nails waking me up. Crying and holding onto the sheets like they were the hands of my mother, being pinned down to an exam table.

Some days I still see that version of myself in the mirror looking back at me. The hospital gown caressing her bruised, glass bones and that plastic tube tangled in her lungs, tucked behind her ear. Long hair, sunken in eyes that slowly filled clear vials of blood, skin even more translucent than it was now. I remember sitting pretty in a waiting room alone at six AM, awaiting flu shots and scales. Numbers that determined how my day would go. I cleaned out the white gash, wrapped it in cloth tape and spit up the remains of the minty saliva.

I like to tell myself she’s still alive, my mom. I tell myself I can bring her back in some whimsical way. I know I can’t, but I still will never stop wishing on shooting stars and birthday candles every chance I get like she told me to do as a little girl. I grew out of believing in wishes and fairies that collected your milk teeth when I was eleven, but November 11, 2011, was the day I began wishing again.

I still blame myself sometimes, even though I know I shouldn’t. It was going to happen no matter what frostbitten words bubbled out of my mouth and no matter how tight my bones could enclose her. Still, I cling onto every wilting memory and word I said to her like the last snowflakes of winter, and just like the snowflakes melt, memories fade, and that was my biggest fear. Forgetting.

The days I stay intertwined with the sheets I often wonder if I could have done anything to stop her. If I had hid the pills, or asked what the white box under my bed was, why we got up and left so quickly, why she locked her bedroom door when she had never done so previously. Would things have been different?

Ever since the day she died, I’ve noticed her in little ways. I see the number eleven frequently and find tissues under my pillow. I like to believe it’s her whispering “hello, sniffles, i’m still here.”. She had written that she wanted us here in Cambridge in her letter, so it could just be me and her spirit in the snowbird house we always wanted to call our own. She promised she would always be with me, that she’ll coat the trees with white and mist, brush the pine, send diamond doves to my window to wake me up, and make it stay winter forever. I had read her note many times over, and even slept holding it like my stuffed rabbit I had dropped in the river when I was nine, which is the reason I often have paper cuts on my fingertips and arms.

I grew up in Colorado, near Lakewood. My mother made sure I was born in the winter time, so winter could be my favorite season too, so I could leave footprints in the snow each time my feet grew, and make snow angels to watch over me. All of my earliest memories are in the winter. Frostbite and pink noses stuff my skeleton, and I’ve learned to adore the shivers and chattering teeth. I still remember my favorite dress, white with a pink bow and lace that fell to just above my knees. I would cry to my mother, pointing white fingers to the cherry that dripped from my shins. She would pick me up in her wings, sing Bonjour l'hiver in my ears, and kissed my berried bandages before I went to sleep.

She always told me stories of a mother and baby dove who flew away from all of the other birds and started a nest just for themselves, away from the rest of the world. She would tell me about Cambridge, a city in Massachusetts she always dreamed of living in, purchasing me and her our own little nest under snow, away from everyone else.

When I was 16, she woke me up with petal hands and a white suitcase. “Good morning, sniffles.” she smiled softly, caressing my cheek. “It’s time we spread our wings.”

***

We took a train to Cambridge on Christmas Eve, breathed in the mistletoe and let the cold coat our throats like cough syrup. I had fell asleep in the taxi, dreamed of white owls, and felt her carry my lazy bones into a house. She placed me in a bed, woke me up with a gentle kiss on my forehead, and looked at me with sad, peppermint eyes. “This is our new nest, my little dove.”

It seemed to stay winter forever. Every dawn we would walk on frozen paths, breathe out fog and kiss each other's pink noses. We would sit by creeks, talk to the bunnies, feed them blueberries, tell them that they were lovely, angelic creatures. Every day was perfect. Quiet, tranquil, and away from the rest of the world, everything we ever wanted. Both me and my mom didn’t like to speak much. We lived in soft silence, communicating with our eyes and hands. When we did speak, we spoke to each other in soft whispers. The only sounds in the house would be the soft running water of the bathtub, the crinkle of clean sheets in the dryer, and little sneezes. At night she would sing me Ma Cherie Amour, trace my veins goodnight, and kiss my cheek with her eyelashes.

On November 10th, 2011 she woke me up with sorrowful eyes, pushed my hair behind my ear. “Good morning, sniffles.” her eyes were weary and grey, but she wore a delicate smile when she spoke.

“There is a box under your bed..,

“I want you to open it when you find me.”

“Find… you?”

She put a finger over my lips.

“Do not panic, my sweet dove. All will be well.”

I gave her confused, teary periwinkles.

“Rest your head my dear. Dream of the winter’s flowers.”

I wanted to ask questions, I felt them conjure in my throat like a blizzard, but she had already left the room. I slowly closed my eyes again, and let the boiled sweets coat my skull.

***

I woke up to a rotten floral scent. My stomach swirled like a snow globe, as I allowed the soles of my feet to fall onto the cold floor. My morning cold creeps caressed my shoulders and it felt like there were blocks of ice in my chest and throat. I allowed my toes to carry me to my mother’s room. There was a note on the door.

Dear Avery,

I love you, my sweet dove. I have cut off my wings. I have given myself a long winter's rest. I am sorry. I took you here before I did this, so you can live our dreams for the both of us. I wished for you to have a quiet place to grieve when I had taken my last breath and seen my last snowflake. I wanted you to have a quiet place, for you to sleep and hide from the world like we both love to do. All of our savings are on the kitchen counter organized by bills and coins, along with the number of my sister whom you don’t have to speak to or see her if you do not wish, but she will provide for you if ever needed. She knows what happened. I urge you to not come inside, but if you must, I understand. Do not fret, do not move my body, simply leave me to rest. Kiss my nose if you wish to. I will always be with you. My spirit will be living with you. I promise to coat the trees with white and mist, brush the pine, send diamond doves to your window to wake you up, and make it stay winter forever. I have left a white box under your bed.

Open it only if you miss me more than your body can handle. Continue spreading your wings, sniffles. Don’t forget to wash the dreams from your mouth before you start your days.

-         Emily Stevens (Momma)

I felt cold vomit trickle up my throat as my hand turned the door knob. The snowflakes in my glass stomach twisted and twirled. I was afraid to flutter my eyes open. To let the butterfly wings that protected my washed out lapis stones unfold themselves. After eleven minutes of standing in the scent of wilted daisies and cold, wet washcloths, I did. She was laying in a white silk dress, still beautiful, still resembling the soft face of an angel. Her nightstand had an empty pill bottle on it, as well as two daisies and a glass of water. My breath quickened and I screamed, scaring the birds on our windows away. I walked up to her choking on spit and tears and spewing up slush and ice. Hands and head trembling, I placed my lips on the tip of her nose. Still pink as if she had just stepped out onto the porch on the first day of winter. I closed my eyes letting my tears fall onto her cheeks, letting the frozen rivers thaw and wash her chestnut hair. I let out a shaky breath and a cry.

“Momma…”

I called my mom’s sister a week after she passed. She knocked on the door once a week with a sweet sugar tip, tip, tap, tap, and dropped off brown parcels at the door. They were delicately filled with sweets, laced fabrics, and baking ingredients. She never missed a week. I never saw her face, all I knew was that her name was Elizabeth. She was very kind. I imagined she smelt of vanilla, that she had milk thistle hair, soft peppermint eyes like my mom’s, and soft hands. Every morning I went to the woods and gathered berries from the bushes my mom

showed me weren’t poisonous, or sour tasting. One time I picked one from a bush she had pointed to disapprovingly without her looking. The bitterness coated my teeth and covered my palette with powdered soot for days. I was always cautious from then on.

Everyday I made myself a bowl of cream of wheat with brown sugar and wild berries, both me and my mom’s favorite breakfast. I cooked small platters for myself in the evenings, and ate them on the porch alongside my mother’s cold ghost and the whispers of white fox tails.

It will be a year since she died tomorrow. Today was November 10, 2012. I went mute the day I found her, I’ve forgotten what my own voice sounds like. I felt as though even if I wanted to talk, the ice in my throat that never melted would stop any sounds but muffled gurgles from coming out. Her body coated the house with a burnt, white rose scent that I've learned to find comfort and endearment in, learned to let it tickle my nostrils, and I hear her light footsteps in the snow sometimes. I haven’t gone into her room since that day, but I leave her white flowers I find outside near her door, hoping she’ll see them.

Today was a day my bones felt heavy. It felt as if someone had put bags of salt where each joint met, as if the snow in my bosom was hollowed out. Today was a day where she would follow me around. I would feel her cold hands and hear her soft humming. My body felt like I had been left out in the cold and froze to death. Today was a day I missed her more than my body could handle. I felt sick to my stomach and I could taste glitter between my teeth, my skin was more see-through than usual, and the moonjellies swam back and forth up my wrists. I ran cold water on my face, dried it with cloth, put the white box on my pillow, and sighed. I heard her voice.

“Open it dear”.

Inside was a bottle of pills, and a small letter.

“if you choose to rest your wings with me”

I closed the box, left it next to me, and returned back to the world under my sheets and between the threads of my dreams. I folded my butterflies, dreamed of her, and slept until the cold ache in my chest had settled down

November 11, 2012

The bells of a church in the distance raised my heavy head off the cotton, as my nightmares tiptoed along the window sill. They clung onto the snow falling to the ground. I felt the fingertips of my mom tracing the lines of my collarbones as if she were really there like she used to be, and she would be soon. I stretched my lazy bones, allowing her shirt to fall down my shoulder like the snowflakes. I sighed, holding blue pills in my hand, looking out to the grey. She and I loved the snow, and I wanted it to be the last thing I saw while cutting off my wings, and taking my final breath.

flowers

By Millie Reiss

believe me

believe in my petals

that protrude through my teeth

even though you have withered them

believe in my lavender limbs

although they may drip azalea 

believe in my daisy’s death

and peony promises

and that my white roses

have turned to red ones

all because of you

reach down my throat

and pull out the roots you have planted in my stomach

believe me when i tell you

i breathe out baby’s breath

and that you smell like the honeysuckle

i picked as a little girl

believe me when i tell you your

fingers are floral

your hands hyacinths

ones i wish i could touch

but i do not wish to hurt your delicate petals

your cheeks are cherry blossoms

for you, my love, i am a floraphile

you, lovely girl

are a garden

one i wish to sleep in for years

and keep a secret

from the world

you

inject your lilies

turning my veins into

clear bubblegum

i cough up flowers

at the mere sight of

you

they tell me to always stop and smell the roses

so i stop to look at you

to look at your lips

crying forget-me-nots

as i know i will never be able to pick those roses

and call them my own

believe me

believe me when i say

that if i had a flower

for every time

you tiptoed in

pale ballet slippers

in the flower beds of my mind

the dirt would no longer be visible

believe me when i tell you

that you are the most beautiful flower

i have ever laid my eyes on

your complexion

becomes the pillow

my tulip tears rest on

when my head isn’t quiet enough

your arms

the sheets

i rest my violet veils in

when the shade of anyone else

isn’t dark enough to conceal my face

you inject me

with your orchid words

your white liquid marigolds

and ivory angels

you drip from a syringe

and breathe under my skin

and i want the feeling to last forever

but they say nothing gold can ever stay,  right?

so you slowly wilt

when frost coats your stem

but when i close my eyes

you’re there

you’re there

bloomed in full again like the flowers in spring

the pinks of my eyelids

replaced with the pinks on the tip of your nose

so leave me to whither, my darling

leave me wilt so you don’t have to

let me expect it

so it hurts less

leave me to sit in this bathroom

and spill petals onto the tile

be the reason for your spring cleaning

finish your dirty work in the garden

then come inside

and wash the soil from under your nails in the basin

hold and water me one last time

then deadhead my buds with golden scissors

return me to the dirt that i came from

and promise me

promise me

that you won’t let me grow again

until you begin to love me

the way i love you