December 25th, 2010. Over a year ago now. Doesn't really seem like it. Well, maybe it does. I have trouble gauging the time, because before that day my life might as well have been going in fast forward and slow motion all at once. The 25th was a Saturday, and for most people, it meant that they'd be with family members celebrating Christmas (or at least whatever “Christmas” meant according to their own traditions). I was at synagogue. After the service was over, I went to talk with one of my friends. Back then I never mentioned my dad in casual conversation, but, for some reason, whether it was coincidence or premonition unbeknownst, I mentioned him that day. It was just a quick remark without much meaning, punctuated with a shrug and a smile. Maybe that's when it happened.

December 25th came and went. It was almost normal, except that on Saturdays my dad would be in and out of the house more than usual. I didn't see him at all that day. I counted it as a blessing—a small reprieve. Let's back up a bit before I plow on through the rest of the story. My dad hadn't been on friendly terms with anyone in the immediate family for years at this point. It's none of my business to say what he did or to who, but he did a lot of bad things. He was an actor. Not by profession, but by nature. There weren't many times when he showed his true feelings (not so simply that he didn't, but that he couldn't), except when he was unable to thumb down his anger anymore. That was scary even as a young adult.

The next day, Sunday, the 26th, I woke up late. It must've been around 11 in the morning. My mom was sitting down when I came into the living room, and my sister was standing nearby. My brother was staying at a friends' house, snowed in. There was a stillness in the room that I couldn't quite comprehend until my mom broke the silence and told me that dad died. I wasn't sure what to do with the information. We all knew he wouldn't live long: He had a heart attack not too long before, and his recovery was up and down. I was still in shock. I wasn't sad, because I didn't love him as a son should love a father. He'd broken those bonds a long time ago. I didn't hate him either, because I'd learned what forgiveness was at the end of my teens. The feeling was bizarre. I could only think of going back to sleep, and maybe something would become clear to me when I woke up.

I don't know how much longer I slept, but my mom must have had the same idea: She was sleeping in the living room when I got up. I didn't get anything to eat that morning or that afternoon. If I was hungry, my brain must not have recognized it. I felt like taking a walk, so I grabbed my camera, and I put on my heaviest coat, gloves, extra socks, extra pants, and whatever else I could find to fight the cold of the day. It snowed an awful lot, which isn't normal for my part of Virginia. If you're a snow lover (I am), you're lucky to get an inch or two to stick. I measured it at ten inches, and it kept snowing for some time thereafter.

I went out the back door and took a moment to admire the scenery: Everything was white, clean, beautiful. I'd never seen so much snow in my life. I went down the steps and my feet disappeared from view. Around the corner of the house, down our driveway, a small tree in the neighbors' yard was falling over from the weight of the snow. It met the larger tree in our yard and formed an archway through which I had to pass to leave my house behind. What a fitting image. (When I returned to take a picture of it later, the tree had fallen further and no longer made the same picture.) I turned left onto Columbia Ave., and halfway down the block I began to think of how beautiful the snow was. How life was going to change. How everything was going to be alright from now on. How we would be able to live as a family again without fear. “How great is God that he could make something so beautiful?” And before I knew it, tears were in my eyes. I wiped them away and collected myself, and for the first time since childhood, I felt at peace.

I don't remember how long I walked for. I stopped every now and then to take pictures. I ended up going straight down Columbia to a lake, the usual place I stopped on walks. I always enjoyed spending quiet time there. There were a lot of other people out for walks as well. Kids playing in the streets. No traffic to worry about. People seemed genuinely happy to greet strangers. It was nice. On the way back home, my sister came out to meet me about a third of the way from my house to the lake. We walked together and threw some snowballs. When we got home, I threw off my coat and other winter wear, made a few puddles on the kitchen floor, and tried to dry myself off and warm myself up. Mom was awake. She said she had told everyone in the family what happened. I remember that she said my brother's response was “well, it's over.” Everyone in the house felt the same peace that I did.

We discovered later that the last thing my dad had written in his notebook was how he wanted to feel loved, and how he knew he would once he was in the arms of his Lord. He did a lot of terrible things in life, and a lot of terrible things happened to him just the same, and he continued to be an angry and controlling man up to the day he died. But he did profess to know God. Maybe that was the only part of him that was true, or that he tried to make true; the only part that wasn't just an image he portrayed. I want to believe that. We were told he must have died painlessly, instantly. They couldn't explain what happened to him. He was holding a drink the whole time. It didn't spill. He looked like he was sleeping.

It'll be a long time before I forget the vivid details of that day. Whenever I think about it, whenever I think about how to sum it up, how to put it all into perspective for myself, I come back to the same four words: “That day, it snowed.”