|Rinat Voligamsi's First Snow, courtesy of Rinat Voligamsi|
“Which one, Babushka?” Klara whispers.
“On the left.”
“So what’s the other one?”
“His spirit, my little snowberry.”
“Why can we see him?”
“It must be the snow. The man grows so cold that his spirit turns from vapour into crystals.”
“Just like a snowflake?”
“Yes, little snowberry.”
“But they are the same, Babushka. Snowflakes are all different.”
She looks at her granddaughter. She is learning.
“But they are not the same. Listen.”
They turn their reddened ears into the snow-spotted wind. The soldier is humming, Kalinka, Kalinka, Snowberry of mine.
"I prefer the spirit," says Klara. "He is silent."