SNOWFLAKES WITHOUT AGENDA

The vivid hues of the foliage seemed to bring the painting to life. Intrigued, she leaned closer, desperately wishing to be there, in that place so far away, and so long ago. Her senses seemed to respond to her subconscious desires when she suddenly inhaled the scent of wood smoke, felt a cold wind stirring her hair, and saw a movement in the distance...

“Grandpa, is that you?” Jennifer called ahead.
Silence answered back.
“Grandpa, where are you?” she called again, a little worried.
Still silence.
“Ollie, Ollie, Oxen Free!” she shouted.
From behind, Grandpa’s massive hands squeezed and tickled her, hoisting her high into the late autumn sky. His outstretched arms seemed miles long as she looked down at him, squealing first from fear, then laughter. The crows dispersed from the branches above as the clouds took the last of the sunlight away. Her laughter filled the air and echoed back from the distance with the sound of happiness.
“Where were you hiding?” she asked. “I couldn’t find you anywhere.”
“I was just over there,” he said, “behind that big rock between those Aspen trees and that tall Cedar. You almost got me when you climbed up on that rock, but I saw you coming, so I buried myself in a pile of leaves. You were so close I had to hold my breath so you wouldn’t hear me. I almost passed out.”
Jennifer smiled and said, “Should we head back?”
“You think they miss us?” Grandpa replied.
“I’m not sure,” Jennifer said, “but I’m getting cold.”
“Alright then,” he replied, as they began to saunter back down the trail.
Blowing rapidly down the cobblestone road, the yellow leaves danced gold, the red ones burned maroon. More beautiful than reality, the dark orange leaves faded around the edges, as if they couldn't decide which color to be. Large, flat snowflakes began to fall, without agenda, as the crisp air turned cold. As the two returned down the path to Grandma and Grandpa’s stone cabin, the cobblestones had transitioned from gray to white. Smoke billowed out of the chimney, and flickered as it became one with the sky, smelling faintly of walnut.
“There’s no place as beautiful as Vermont in the fall,” her Grandpa would say every time they returned from playing Hide and Seek.
“Did the squirrels chase you off?” Grandma asked as the two passed through the door. “Dinner is almost ready. You two should go wash up.”
“Can you show me your studio again before dinner, Grandpa?” Jennifer asked, nearly pleading.
“Sure, Love Bug,” he said, and took her by the hand.
The two climbed the hardwood staircase to Grandpa’s loft studio.
“The lighting is much better up here,” Grandpa would always say as they entered the studio. Rolls of canvas stood at attention in the corner while row upon row of his old oil paintings lined the perimeter like soldiers ready for battle. He had started painting as a means of relaxation following a war injury. As his body got better, so did his paintings. Nobody ever counted, but there must have been a battalions worth of them. A hint of turpentine and linseed oil filled her nostrils when Jennifer noticed Grandpa was starting a new painting.
“What’s it going to be, Grandpa?” she asked.
“Something special,” he replied. “I’m not sure exactly how it’s going to turn out yet. You’ll just have to see it when I’m finished.”
“Could you paint something for me, Grandpa?” she asked.
“I’ll see what I can do, Love Bug. We better get back downstairs. Your Grandma’s sweet potato pie is waiting for us. I’m starving after hiding from you for so long,” he said, and smiled.
Grandpa took a seat in his favorite old, dusty chair. The hum of activity in the kitchen was palpable. Jennifer helped set the table. Diana, her mother, made homemade stuffing and cranberry sauce. Aunts and uncles and cousins sat around the table playing a game of cards while hints of thyme and rosemary saturated their noses and tickled their taste buds. Every year, without fail, they all knew dinner was ready when Grandma would call out, “Art, it’s time to come carve the bird,” which he would do, and everybody would eat and drink and laugh… telling the same stories, year after year, until everybody had enough to eat.
With her belly full of turkey, Jennifer’s head began to bob, as the tryptophan kicked in. Sleep began to take over her body. Her mother said, “Honey, why don’t you run off to bed. You look so tired.”
Jennifer pulled herself up on the sofa and said her goodnights to the room full of people, playing cards again and laughing. She walked over to Grandpa in his dusty chair, kissed him lightly on the cheek and said, “I love you Grandpa.”
“You too, Love Bug. Great Day,” he whispered back.
“See you in the morning, Grandpa,” she said.
“OK, sweet heart. Good night,” he said.
Jennifer ran off to bed, and slept hard underneath the flannel sheets and the thick down comforter, thinking of her Hide and Seek game as she drifted off.

“Honey, wake up,” said Diana, Jennifer’s mother. “Dinner is ready.”
“Give me a minute,” Jennifer said, “I’ll be right there.”
After freshening up, Jennifer sauntered downstairs and was greeted by 28 smiling eyes. With the traditional Thanksgiving feast spread out before them, Grandpa’s painting watched over the entire family as they ate and drank and laughed. In that moment, the air smelled of his cologne and sweet potatoes. It felt as if he was in the next room, so alive, sitting in his dusty chair, waiting for Grandma to call out, “Art, it’s time to come carve the bird!”
The painting on the wall had been the last he ever painted. It depicted the Vermont forest in late fall, leaves swirling around along a cobblestone path. Grandma and Grandpa’s stone cabin off in the distance. A solitary figure, holding a little girl’s hand as they walked toward the cabin and the snow began to fall. Being his last painting, everybody in the family secretly hoped to inherit it after Grandpa died last Christmas, but in his will, he had left it to Jennifer, as everybody knew he would.
“Who’s going to carve the bird this year?” Grandma asked.
Jennifer took the knife with a tear in her eye, a smile on her face, and the snowflakes fell outside without agenda.