The Snowy Sundays of December

(Note: Story contains vague mentions of non-violent, non-descriptive death)

It wasn't very often she found herself picking through clothes at one of those discount charity stores. Each embroidered piece lost her interest the moment it moved across the rack. She continued down the line, faded jeans that only reminded her of the life someone lived before. Each stain told the story of a hard-working man, a small child deeply enthralled in days of muddy spring, yellow bell-bottoms worn with pride, and a knitted scarf from a grandmother's stash. Each time being met with the same metal scratch, a dignified ‘next’. If today weren't so slow, she'd be filled with the sound of chatter. A collective chaos that would make it easier to forget each story she created.

The moment her hands touched the faded overalls, she was transported back into a world of lights: flashing greens, small specs of purple. Disoriented and confused, she drifted further, the smell of her mother's attic playing tricks on her mind. It was nothing but a memory, yet she stood perfectly in the light's path. A tall Christmas tree so real she felt like she could smell its pine. She wanted to convince herself it was just the clothes, and maybe that was how it started, but even logic couldn't budge what felt so real.

Behind the decoration is her favorite window, a transparent circle looking out onto snowy fields, inside which two green birds are trapped, exactly as her feet were then. In the distance, down below several stories of a childhood home, were snow mounds as high as the eye could estimate. Just one snowy Sunday in late December.

When reality came, it came in the form of another metal scratch, a cold touch on her finger tip, and the automatic wave of her hand. Grounding sensations that she didn’t seem to acknowledge as the attic faded away. Another sip of bitter coffee, and it was gone completely.

Was it really that bad? She couldn’t help but question herself. ‘Always an emotional slog, you.” She’d hear it ringing in her head like it was just yesterday. The metal reminded her of her mother's rings; the same frigid sensation took her. Not even the faux warmth of untethering wool could bring her back.

A soft hand sat on her cheek, caressing it with a beautiful shush. A finger under her chin suggests she looks up, but a pit in her stomach couldn't bear to face the lady attached.

“Now, dear…” She didn't hear the rest; laughter filled its place. This time, reality didn't come so easily; she had to blink to bring it back. No metal cold enough, no sound as loud as joyful teens. When she finally looked up, she was met with their faces. Acne-riddled skin, they reminded her of better days. Days filled with warmer coffee, she took another sip.

Instead of washing it away, her taste invited the sickness in. She let it make its home on her tongue, swirling it around like a sweet piece of candy. Butterscotch.

A chapel came into view, and warmth grew in her body. She didn't look up, only over to the wrinkled and ashy hand in her, kept so clean and chunky. The floor revealed different reflective patterns blurring into rainbows as she walked closer to what her heart knew would be impending doom.

With the blink of an eye, she was sitting perfectly still, the same woman's arm in hers, butterscotch coating the walls of her mouth. It was quiet, but sniffles and minor coughs let her know that people were all around. She couldn't help but focus on the lights, so slowly moving, going darker and lighter. Still, no pattern emerges in this deep fragment of memory.

She felt the palm of the woman, so close to remembering, yet so far from a name. As quickly as it came, it faded through her hand, being replaced with the cup of empty coffee. The teens were no longer in sight, and the smell of old clothes came back into focus.

“Ma'am, are you okay?” A stocky woman, big-eyed with a plastered smile, met her gaze. For a moment, she wondered why the woman in front of her wasn't wrinkled. What a silly thought, so funny she almost laughed.

“Of course!” With a smile to match, she gripped the cup tighter, creating wrinkles to match her hands. She wondered why the woman asked; she didn't seem to acknowledge her more than that, walking away swiftly. She wondered if her smile dropped when hers did.

Should she take this as her time to leave? The snow outside said 'stay,' yet the imagined tension inside spoke otherwise. Maybe outside, this would stop; she'd ground herself in the snow. Remind her that life is current. Life is valuable.

Another metal strike, and the rack was done, a decision to move on or move out. She didn't bother looking around; she knew her way around the maze like she knew the way around her mind.

“See you next Sunday, Mrs. Lora!” That same employee, same smile, bid her farewell as the doorbell signaled her departure.

Outside, the ground was wet, her boots picking up slushy mud as she walked into the parking lot towards nothing. Mrs. Lora, a name she'd not heard in years. As her foot hit the first mound of snow, she was taken yet again. Disoriented, cold, she was back in the attic. This time, the light was bleak, but those same birds caught her eye. Moonlight shone purple through them, green being but a distant memory.

“Why are you up here, Lora?” A man's voice boomed around her, familiar and comforting, even in her darkest moments. “Go back to bed, sweetie, it's too late to be up.” The man's hand wrapped around hers, feet falling into place until the click of the door sent her into pure darkness.

Her next moments played like pictures. The crashing sound of glass, the shriveled scream of that same man. All black, yet all vivid, she saw crimson red, flashing blues, neon yellows disappearing into white top vans. All before she was back in the chapel, the preacher finished his sermon as the same stained glass became dragons and princesses deep in her subconscious.

She finally looked up, a dark brown box perfectly closed, pink and purple flowers surrounding it. She couldn't remember a word of what the preacher had said, couldn't remember who lay in the coffin, but she knew deep sadness even with hands so small.

Today's news: A woman found face down in the snow outside Mama's Attic is now at Lynn County Hospital, thanks to a local heroic employee.

An elderly woman was found outside of Mama's Attic today, December 27th, 2025. Staff says she comes in every Sunday throughout the winter; they only know her first name, Lora. She's in Lynn County Hospital suffering from what looked like a trip and fall. Her condition is currently unknown.

Employee, Marcy Lynn, says, “I found her [Mrs. Lora] was outside after she'd left in a hurry. I followed because I'd watched her go through clothes, and she kinda seemed out of it. Much different than last week.”

Ms. Lynn is getting an employee of the month badge this Monday for her bravery and eye for detail. Don't miss it on the wall when you come by!

When she opened her eyes again, Lora was met with the face of a man she could finally see. His brown eyes were as soft as she always remembered, his hands as warm as they were that unfateful snowy night. His smile invited her in, giving her permission to relax her shoulders for the first time in forever. Finally able to look around.

The two stood in a small room with beige couches and light blue walls. There was no fear, no sadness. When he spoke, his voice was just as comforting.

“What took you so long, Lora? We've been waiting for you.” With an accent as thick as his skin, he led her into another room, a kitchen she could only vaguely remember. Her mouth watered at the slightest hint of freshly baked bread.

A wrinkled hand was the first thing that met her gaze, offering a yellow piece of candy, which she happily accepted, looking up at the elder who held her hands wide with confidence. Without much thought, she crawled into the woman's lap. It was as if a gust of wind blew in puzzle pieces; an image of a full table faded in, and chatter grew louder as it cleared. Each face was recognized, but none took permanent residence. With the clink of a glass, everyone's attention was turned to the man.

“A special moment for Lora, she took a while to join us, but the wait was worth every second of seeing the beautiful life she created for herself. We couldn't be more proud of her, truly.”

In the mind of an adolescent, Lora accepted that he must have been speaking about Grandma. Grandma got here late; she must have.

Adjusting in her lap, she finished off her butterscotch and closed her eyes. Warm for the first time in years, she let the smell of floral perfume drift her into darkness.