Snowstorms and Retrospection

The bustling city is shrouded in a thick white haze, all of the noise and grime covered beneath a soft blanket of cold. I stare through my kitchen window, mesmerized by the tiny paper flecks of snow swirling outside. There's something magical about the first snow of the season. Some intrinsic child within all of us that can't help but revel in the fairy dust flakes that fall from the sky, and the delicate little crystals that gift endless possibilities.

It's been a while since I was a child, a good twenty years or so, but I suppose the snow may be able to bring out a better side of myself. Though even this storm won't be able to fix the fact that I'm spending this Thanksgiving alone for the third year in a row. Everyone else in my life has someone to come home to for the holidays, and here I am, alone. Though I really can't be that unhappy, it was my choice after all to get some space from my insensitive, overly competitive family, and now it's become too much a matter of pride for me to back down first.

The microwave beeps, pulling me out of contemplation. Nothing like a mass-produced reheated bowl of pasta for a meal to give thanks. Hey, at least it's something, even though this wilted, 50% plastic meal would never beat my mom's cooking. I know I was completely right to cut out my family from my life, but I might just admit I was wrong just to get one last bowl of homemade mashed potatoes, warm and hearty like Mom always made them. No, it's been too long. Too much anger that went unacknowledged like a bag of tea steeped too long, leaving nothing behind but unpalatable sludge, sharp, bitter and unforgiving.

It was five years ago that I walked out of our childhood home and never looked back, blocking all of the calls, deleting all of the emails. I moved two hundred and fifty miles south just to get away from them and everything they believed so mindlessly.

It wasn't always this bad with my family and I, but our argument started a lot more than just five years ago.

Growing up out in rural Wisconsin, I didn't have many cares for the rest of the world, content to let it stay distant from my easy sheltered life. We didn't travel much, and that definitely didn't help all of our two dimensional views of other people.

Still, despite having been surrounded by the same ideas my whole life, when I started forming opinions of my own, not all of them aligned with the rest of my family. Once I turned eighteen, my parents and I had many arguments over how I was voting. They couldn't understand that I just wanted to make my own decisions, and that I couldn't agree with the person they supported unquestionably. It was a disagreement that continued between us for decades.

Now I'm here in Chicago, as far away as I can bear to be from the people who I love, yet still they are the very ones that drove me out in the first place. Anyways, family holidays only work if your family wants to see you, and I'm fairly certain my parents would be happy to never see me again, which they made sure to tell me the last time I spoke with them. I'm doing just fine on my own, I'm completely okay living my life without them.

The half frozen pasta in my hands looks mockingly up at me, judgement emanating from the sad heap of cheap spaghetti noodles. With a sigh, I pitch the whole thing in the trash. I don't really want to eat the cancerous junk anyways. I glance out of my window again, noting the snow plow driving by. The open road seems to beckon, a dark path of opportunity, and the falling snow that gives the city a cinematic backdrop. Suddenly this moment feels important. I decided to step out into the storm, just to see where I might end up.

In the front seat of my Ford F150, the memories hit me. Dad taught me to drive in this truck. I drove my family to my sister's graduation in this truck. I left my rental house in that city five years ago with my stuff piled in the back of this truck. This truck was my one constant throughout a life of constant conflict and change. Despite all of the history it held, it was a good car. It should be just fine on the slippery roads, even if it keeps snowing like this.

I start the engine and back out of my driveway, watching the glimmering yellow streetlights shrouded in snowflakes swirl past my windows as I start driving. The road stretches out behind me, and even though I don't know where I'm going, I somehow find myself knowing exactly where I should be going. It takes me back to the last time I drove up these roads.

It was Thanksgiving, four years ago. I had moved down to Chicago the previous year, and for some inexplicable reason, perhaps the same reason that motivates me now, I made the decision to come home for Thanksgiving. I showed up, and instead of a greeting I was given a cold glare and an unforgiving bereavement that lasted an hour. When I couldn't stand the back and forth screaming match any longer, I left.

Despite all of the reasons why I should turn around before I get hurt again, I can't help myself from hoping that four years might have changed their minds. As far fetched as that idea might be, I keep driving anyway. Even if nothing has changed and we aren't able to stop ourselves from tearing each other to pieces, it still matters to me to see them.

The snow starts falling more quickly, and I begin to worry about the road. There aren't any other cars out on the highways that I can see, but that won't help me if I end up hitting a patch of black ice and spinning out. I curse under my breath. Of course, one day I decided to finally visit my family again, the roads are as slippery as a patch of non-stick cooking spray that missed the pan and is now hellbent on making you break your tailbone. Well, it's too late now to turn back. I just hit the halfway mark, and if I'm throwing my stubbornness about not giving in first to the winds then I might as well see what happens.

When I finally get to my hometown's country roads, I seriously reconsider my life choices. This was a stupid decision. This is going to end so poorly. My hands shake, and I turn onto our street. The lights are on, and I can see three cars in the driveway.

Unsteadily, I step up out of my car. Through the front window I can see them all sitting around the dinner table, my family, enjoying their holiday without me. A tear rolls down my cheek, and I don't know how long I just stand there watching. Waiting for any kind of sign that this is the right thing to do as self doubt gnaws on my resolve.

Finally, I give up on waiting and ring the doorbell, accepting that I will never be fully ready. As the chime rings and the snow continues to fall gently around me, I wait to see if somehow this visit with my family will be different. I wait, hoping the snow will have brought the best out of them too.