Snow That Scars

By Lauren Poplock

I’m fourteen, living in a museum of ash, every block an exhibit of what the Eaton fires took. The air exhales embers, each speck a counterfeit snowflake drifting down to scar our street.

My little cousin presses her face to the window, eyes lit like lanterns.

“Snow! In Los Angeles?! It never snows here!” she cries, her joy ringing against the charred silence. She runs, chasing wonder, and I trail behind, my steps heavy with grief.

In the doorway, Mom shields us from the world. She fastens KN95 masks to our faces.

“For the debris,” she says, and the miracle dissolves.