Fox in the Snow

How many rounds will the smallest hand of the clock lap before my body gains the independence this seclusion has already forced upon my mind? The teak grandfather clock stands like a frozen soldier, waiting for the touch of a loved one to free it of its duties. Its presence fills the room like a thick fog, slowing time. Tick… Tick… Tick… Once again vanquished by its stare, my gaze wanders. 

Frost dances across my windows. The chaotic movement is a beautiful contrast to the sea of still pines rooted in my backyard. There is my fox in the snow. She is a kind visitor, a free spirit, whose colour of flame ignites something within me. 

I want to be comfortable in the quiet of this town, but I crave more than the hush that presses against our house. The snow stretches so far that it feels as though the earth has dissolved beneath it. Sometimes, I imagine winter creating an ocean, and we find ourselves stranded in its midst, our house a fragile boat in the middle of the sea, with nothing but white in every direction, nothing but emptiness.

My family calls this peace. In low voices, they speak at dinner. Their napkins folded into precise squares. Before, after, and occasionally during meals, they offer prayers. My mother’s hands are always busy; they knead dough, fold laundry, smooth invisible wrinkles from the tablecloth. My father clears his throat before every sentence as though his words must pass inspection before they leave his mouth. 

I am quiet. They mistake my silence for obedience, but inside me, there’s a storm that refuses to freeze. I listen. I nod. I memorize the correct moments to smile, but I do not belong to their stories. 

Sometimes I wonder if something went wrong in the making of me, if perhaps the wind mistakenly carried me here and another place or family was meant for me.

The fox lifts her head. Her body is a brushstroke of fire against the blank page of snow. She does not seek permission to exist. She does not bow her head before crossing the yard. She moves. 

I press my palm to the cold window. I imagine the air outside, biting my cheek, piercing my lungs as they fill. I imagine my boots sinking into the snow that has not yet been disturbed. Before I can measure the decision, I’m already pulling on my coat. My scarf hangs loosely around my neck. My mittens are mismatched.

The door groans when I open it, but no one calls after me. 

The clock continues its indifferent counting. The fox has reached the tree line. She pauses, glances back, not at me, but towards the open field, then slips into the woods. I follow, my breath rising in uneven clouds, the trees close around me, branches bowed with frost. The snow is textured, layered with shadows. I try to keep my eyes on the faint prints that the fox has left behind. I want her freedom, but I am not made of her courage. I am made of questions. 

The path narrows, and the sky disappears between the branches. I forget which direction holds the house; the ocean of winter swells around me. I am no longer in a backyard, but adrift at sea. The wind is a current pulling at my coat. There is no shore in sight. Only white. 

Panic is not loud. It arrives quickly like a strong hand resting on your shoulder. 

I stop walking. The fox tracks dissolve beneath a gust of wind. I turn in a slow circle, searching for something familiar. There is nothing. The forest does not acknowledge my fear. 

Uninvited, a thought rises inside of me. I will never be like the other children; they would not have followed the fox. They would have stayed inside, listening to the clock and their mother’s instructions; they would have bottled their restlessness, they would not be standing here with snow in their boots and cold in their chest. 

The realization does not wound me. It settles. 

Perhaps I have spent too much time trying to conform to shapes that are not my own, trying to echo my mother’s careful sentences. 

The fox appears again, between the trees. She stands on a small rise, her body outlined against the pale sky. For a second, we look at each other. She does not invite me closer. She simply exists, unaffected by my longing. And I understand. 

The fox is not free because she runs. She is free because she does not apologize for running. 

I feel the cold more sharply now. My fingers ache inside my mittens. I am not a fox. I need walls. I need heat. I need the sound of the clock, even if it mocks me. 

Maybe I will always walk the line between the girl my parents see and the one who watches foxes from behind glass. I close my eyes, breathe, and listen. The wind brushes past my ears, beneath it is another sound, the hum of the highway. Direction. 

The walk back home feels longer and less certain. I no longer search for the fox’s prints. I make my own. They are clumsier, deeper than hers, but they are mine.

Eventually, the trees thin and our house comes into view. I open the door. Warmth rushes towards me, carrying with it the smell of soup. My mother glances up from the stove. 

“You were outside,” she says. 

“Yes.”

 “You’ve been gone for a while.” 

I nod, waiting for questions, reprimand, or concern. None comes; she turns back to her pot. My father clears his throat from the living room. The clock continues its march. Tick… Tick… Tick… 

For a moment, I feel invisible. Then I feel something else. Relief.

The End