"A Silent Night"
by Sanna Symer '18
I was only four years old, with hardly any knowledge of the alphabet or even my mother's birthday, but I could sense the uneasy heaviness of the air. The darkness was quiet, like it was waiting for something to happen. As I lay shivering under the thin blanket on my bed, I became curious. What was different tonight than any other night? Somewhat nervously, I tip-toed out of my bed and to the frosted window. I wiped the sleeve of my nightgown across the cold glass and to my surprise saw nothing. In the busy city of Boston, "nothing" was unknown. Nothing, that is, except a lone figure on the street corner silhouetted by lamplight and falling snow.
He stood with his hands in his pockets. Not moving, it seemed as if time were frozen. I heard not a sound and saw no one else on the street. I thought it was quite odd.
Another figure appeared just below my window, as if it had come out of the bakery below my apartment. After I saw the outline of the woman's tight, swirled bun and thick winter shawl, I knew she was my grandmother and had, in fact, stepped into the lamplight from the gentle glow of the bakery she owned. She was holding something very carefully and with both hands, but I couldn't tell what it was. My sixty-something grandmother shuffled through the thick snow over to the man, who pulled a lighter and a cigar out of his coat pocket. He stared at her, smoking. She reached out to him, and in the light of the street lamp I saw steam rising up from the object. It was a mug, and she was trying to help this foolish man standing alone in the accumulating snow. The man seemed to nod, and he took the mug from my grandmother's outstretched hands. Though, he didn't say anything, not even a "thank you." My grandmother readjusted her shawl around her thin bones and turned back toward the bakery. The man pulled some oddly- shaped object from his coat.
Bang!
My grandmother collapsed, a crumpled mess of colorful and crudely-sewn fabrics imprinted in the foot-deep snow. I was confused and was not sure what happened, but I was curious, adventurous, and not afraid. I looked up to see if the man was going to try to help my grandmother. He was gone.
I put on my slippers and a coat, mittens, and a hat. I raced down the stairs and opened the bakery door and immediately felt a rush of cold air and snow blow into my face, pinking my cheeks. The snow was piled higher than my knees, but with my curiosity I did not notice the cold on my feet and legs. I trudged over to where my grandmother lay sleeping on the ground and kneeled next to her. I needed to wake her up, for I was afraid she might stay asleep forever if she were left in the freezing snow.
"Grandma?" I shook her frail body with my tiny hands incased in wool mittens. She didn't wake.
"Grandma, wake up! It's too cold!"
Her head was face-down in the snow, and I was worried she might not hear me. I positioned my hands under her body and pushed her around. She was heavy, but I was becoming scared and knew I needed to help her.
"Grandma, please wake up!" I shouted as I heaved her body around so that her back was now directly on the snow.
But then I looked at her purple-white face. Her eyes were open.
I knew it then. She was dead. She was dead, just like my mother and father. My grandmother, the woman who gave me hot cocoa and warm ginger cookies and braided my long hair and kissed me goodnight. She was going to be dead forever.
I started crying, then, and hugged my grandmother, wrapping my arms all the way around her body and resting my head on her chest. I smelled the coffee and cinnamon on her sweater, the scent that I'd always thought belonged to her. I would never smell this again, so I inhaled the scent. Finally, I pulled away and brushed my hair out of my face. Something warm and sticky touched my forehead. I looked back to my hand, and my mitten was covered with a red liquid. It was the same liquid that came out of my skin when I fell and scraped my knee on the cobblestone sidewalk outside the bakery, and the same liquid that beaded on my finger after getting a paper cut. I recognized this liquid to be blood, and my mitten was absolutely soaked.
Under the lamplight, I could see the scarlet blood on the snow all around my grandmother's body. I sobbed, my heart broken and cold out in the winter night. Alone and broken. And I realized, suddenly, that my grandmother had been shot. That was the explanation for the blood and for why she was permanently unable to wake up and for the bang that disrupted the silent night. I had only heard about guns from customers talking about the horrible war over in Europe. I did not know they were real, did not know what they could really do. With my little mind, I thought hard about how she had been shot. Who had held a gun? Who had shot my grandmother?
The shadowed man. The object he'd taken from his coat was a gun, and he'd killed my grandmother. A man I had never seen had murdered my grandmother, and I couldn't have done anything to stop him.
"Grandma," I whispered in her ear. "I love you."
And then I experienced a most interesting sight. A sort of sparkling mist swirled from her open lips into the yellow glow under the lamplight and danced with the falling snowflakes. It rose up into the dark sky, up, up into the snow clouds. Even in the misery of the situation, the sight of that twinkling mist twirling with the large, glittering snowflakes in the winter air was the most beautiful sight of my life. As I sat crying and staring up at the mist dancing a glittering ballet in the sky, a breeze blew past my ear, and in the silent dark of night with not a sound but my soft whimpering, I heard, "I love you more."
He stood with his hands in his pockets. Not moving, it seemed as if time were frozen. I heard not a sound and saw no one else on the street. I thought it was quite odd.
Another figure appeared just below my window, as if it had come out of the bakery below my apartment. After I saw the outline of the woman's tight, swirled bun and thick winter shawl, I knew she was my grandmother and had, in fact, stepped into the lamplight from the gentle glow of the bakery she owned. She was holding something very carefully and with both hands, but I couldn't tell what it was. My sixty-something grandmother shuffled through the thick snow over to the man, who pulled a lighter and a cigar out of his coat pocket. He stared at her, smoking. She reached out to him, and in the light of the street lamp I saw steam rising up from the object. It was a mug, and she was trying to help this foolish man standing alone in the accumulating snow. The man seemed to nod, and he took the mug from my grandmother's outstretched hands. Though, he didn't say anything, not even a "thank you." My grandmother readjusted her shawl around her thin bones and turned back toward the bakery. The man pulled some oddly- shaped object from his coat.
Bang!
My grandmother collapsed, a crumpled mess of colorful and crudely-sewn fabrics imprinted in the foot-deep snow. I was confused and was not sure what happened, but I was curious, adventurous, and not afraid. I looked up to see if the man was going to try to help my grandmother. He was gone.
I put on my slippers and a coat, mittens, and a hat. I raced down the stairs and opened the bakery door and immediately felt a rush of cold air and snow blow into my face, pinking my cheeks. The snow was piled higher than my knees, but with my curiosity I did not notice the cold on my feet and legs. I trudged over to where my grandmother lay sleeping on the ground and kneeled next to her. I needed to wake her up, for I was afraid she might stay asleep forever if she were left in the freezing snow.
"Grandma?" I shook her frail body with my tiny hands incased in wool mittens. She didn't wake.
"Grandma, wake up! It's too cold!"
Her head was face-down in the snow, and I was worried she might not hear me. I positioned my hands under her body and pushed her around. She was heavy, but I was becoming scared and knew I needed to help her.
"Grandma, please wake up!" I shouted as I heaved her body around so that her back was now directly on the snow.
But then I looked at her purple-white face. Her eyes were open.
I knew it then. She was dead. She was dead, just like my mother and father. My grandmother, the woman who gave me hot cocoa and warm ginger cookies and braided my long hair and kissed me goodnight. She was going to be dead forever.
I started crying, then, and hugged my grandmother, wrapping my arms all the way around her body and resting my head on her chest. I smelled the coffee and cinnamon on her sweater, the scent that I'd always thought belonged to her. I would never smell this again, so I inhaled the scent. Finally, I pulled away and brushed my hair out of my face. Something warm and sticky touched my forehead. I looked back to my hand, and my mitten was covered with a red liquid. It was the same liquid that came out of my skin when I fell and scraped my knee on the cobblestone sidewalk outside the bakery, and the same liquid that beaded on my finger after getting a paper cut. I recognized this liquid to be blood, and my mitten was absolutely soaked.
Under the lamplight, I could see the scarlet blood on the snow all around my grandmother's body. I sobbed, my heart broken and cold out in the winter night. Alone and broken. And I realized, suddenly, that my grandmother had been shot. That was the explanation for the blood and for why she was permanently unable to wake up and for the bang that disrupted the silent night. I had only heard about guns from customers talking about the horrible war over in Europe. I did not know they were real, did not know what they could really do. With my little mind, I thought hard about how she had been shot. Who had held a gun? Who had shot my grandmother?
The shadowed man. The object he'd taken from his coat was a gun, and he'd killed my grandmother. A man I had never seen had murdered my grandmother, and I couldn't have done anything to stop him.
"Grandma," I whispered in her ear. "I love you."
And then I experienced a most interesting sight. A sort of sparkling mist swirled from her open lips into the yellow glow under the lamplight and danced with the falling snowflakes. It rose up into the dark sky, up, up into the snow clouds. Even in the misery of the situation, the sight of that twinkling mist twirling with the large, glittering snowflakes in the winter air was the most beautiful sight of my life. As I sat crying and staring up at the mist dancing a glittering ballet in the sky, a breeze blew past my ear, and in the silent dark of night with not a sound but my soft whimpering, I heard, "I love you more."