Jean-Paul shook me awake today, excitedly. "It's snowing, Pa." But when I opened my eyes, it wasn't excitement I saw on his face. It was panic.
"Winter's coming so early this year," he said, his brows knitting. I reminded him he had a roof over his head, and massaged away the worried furrow on his brow. "The snow can't hurt you anymore," I said. He blushed, admitted he was being silly—but there was still a hint of dread in his eyes.
Once you've lived on the street, it's hard to enjoy snow. Snow = death. I've talked about this before. Rain, snow, cold—the elements do a number on me, make me anxious, stir up bad memories. Even if my mind forgets, my body remembers. The Little Luc inside pulls my muscles taut with dread. For Jean-Paul, just off the streets a little over a year, those memories are fresh and painful. But even I, off the streets for two decades, felt my gut clench when I looked out the window and saw snow dusting the rooftops of Montmartre.
"Looks pretty," I lied, wrapping a comforting arm around JP as we watched the white death fall from the sky. "Don't you think?" I asked. JP looked at me, warily. "I guess so," he said. "From in here."
In the end, we stayed inside where the snow sort of looked pretty and where it couldn't do a job on us. I flipped it the bird from behind a tightly sealed window, and JP laughed out loud. He flipped the snow off, too, hurled some epithets, and we both felt like we'd conquered the elements.
