The snow was swirling now as the wind picked up and carried it in small eddies across the intersection. Sandra tucked her scarf under her chin and bent her head down to keep cold snowflakes from melting on her neck as she hurried through the rush-hour swarm and gathering darkness.
Christmas carols called out from small speakers placed high up near a store entrance. Christmas always seemed to be sold earlier every year, she thought.
She stopped at the intersection on the fringe of a small, anxious crowd waiting for the light to change. The store window caught her eye and she stepped quickly toward it. A winter scene, Teddy bears on trains, Santa’s workshop, little bears hammering away at small toys. What a delight, she thought, remembering how her father would take her to this very window every Christmas when she was a child, glad the store still kept up the tradition.
Others stopped beside her. Two children pressed up with their mother, crowding so close their breath smoked the glass.
She was lost in her thoughts when the parka standing beside her spoke.
“It is my first winter.” A man’s voice, an accent, Africa somewhere.
She started, tucked her elbows in slightly, about to turn back toward the now green light.
“What is it like?” he asked. A black face, about forty, clean shaven, strong muscled features, his face shining from the light in the window. “I have never seen snow, except in pictures”.
Curious, she relaxed a little, and turned toward him.
‘Well, it’s cold and wet when it melts.”
“I am from Ghana. I have just come for one year, but this is my first winter.” She heard his accent more closely now, the careful pronunciation and delicate rhythm of African accents now more familiar to her.
“Well, you are in for a treat. This is the first storm and it looks like a big one. A real Canadian blizzard.” He smiled warmly on hearing this, seeming glad to be part of something truly Canadian.
“I think it must taste like coconut.” He said, holding his hand out so the snowflakes gathered in a soft layer on his woolen mittens. “In Ghana we have shredded coconut like this, very sweet and light. Can you taste snow?” he asked.
“Sure.” She brought her glove to her mouth and melted some crystals on her tongue. It tasted cool and strangely tangy from her leather glove. “It’s just water. You can eat it. Like this.” She tilted her head back slightly and slipped her tongue out as she did so, letting a few flakes fall gently onto it.
The man tilted his head back as she had done and slipped a pink tongue out to catch the snowflakes now falling heavily from the evening sky. The snowflakes gathered quickly on his upturned face and on his eyelashes, wetting his face and melting quickly on his tongue.
The two children looked up from the window and seeing the man licking the sky did the same, batting their mother’s leg to show her, to get her to do the same.
The snow fell lightly onto their faces, appearing almost mysteriously out of the waning evening light, turning slightly golden in the light of the window as it landed softly on their waiting tongues. The crowd now coming across the intersection, faces set in the determined way of commuters and shoppers on a mission, glanced at the small curious group standing by the window. A few looked up as they stepped onto the curb as if to see what danger lay above. Then they, too, darted out their tongues quickly, almost embarrassed at being caught in such a childish act, walking a couple of paces with their heads back and faces in the snow tasting childhood again as if for the first time.
“It tastes light.” said the Ghanaian. “You are right. It is just water. I can’t believe water comes like this from the sky. I would say it is sweet like coconut”.
“It’s like ice cream.” said a small boy beside him.
“No, it tastes like Christmas.” said his sister firmly.
“Christmas doesn’t taste.” the boy argued.
‘I would say it tastes like happiness.” said the Ghanaian. “Because, when I eat coconut in my village I am usually very happy.”
“What’s coconut?” asked the girl.
“Coconut is a big hairy nut with sweet juice and white meat inside.” replied the Ghanaian. “It grows on trees as high as your house but we climb up to get it.”
The girl seemed perplexed by this answer and pulled back toward her mother as she considered the possibility that this man was making fun of her.
“How long have you been here?” asked Sandra.
“Less than one month.” replied the Ghanaian. “I am a student at the agricultural college. I am studying on an exchange program.”
“Sounds interesting. I hope you have a wonderful time and enjoy winter. See you later.” Sandra raised her hand slightly toward the Ghanaian and gave a small smile as she turned away toward the street. The light was green again and she joined the commuters spilling off the sidewalk and into the crowd coming toward them from across the street.
As she walked deftly amongst the crowd of strangers, in the fading twilight, she thought of winter, and snow and children, shopping with her father, snowball fights with her brother, the smell of wet, woolen mittens, and cold cheeks after a day outside. She lifted her face and tasted the snowflakes again. Coconut.
She suddenly paused, stepped to the edge of the sidewalk to let the commuters pass and looked back toward the window across the street. A new crowd had formed. There was no sign of the Ghanaian or the children. She rejoined the flow and thought as she walked that there was something she might have done, that she could have done. Another time, perhaps. There was shopping to do, vacation plans to make. Maybe this year I’ll do a week in the Caribbean, she thought, smiling to herself.
