The Journey of a Snowflake

Very high up, inside a grey cloud, a little snowflake was born. It had six arms, and each arm was like lace. No other snowflake in the world was exactly like it. There never had been, and there never would be.

"Where are we going?" it asked the snowflake beside it.

"Down," said the other. "Always down."

They fell from the cloud. Fast at first, then slowly. The wind rocked them to the right and to the left. The snowflake looked down: there were mountains, white. There were forests, half white. There was a village; its roofs white, its windows yellow.

It passed by a mountain. The mountain said, "Land on me, and you will stay a hundred years." "No," said the snowflake, "farther down."

It passed by a pine tree. The pine said, "Land on me, and you will decorate my branch." "No," said the snowflake, "farther down."

It passed by a roof. The roof said, "Land on me, and you will rest in the warmth of my chimney." "No," said the snowflake, "a little farther."

In the village square stood a child. In a red hat, with red mittens. Head tipped back, mouth open, trying to catch snowflakes. The child held out a hand. Palm open.

The snowflake drifted down into that palm. It landed right in the middle. The child looked at it. Six arms, like lace. "How beautiful you are," said the child. "I've never seen one like you."

The snowflake heard those words. And then, in the warmth of the child's hand, it slowly melted. It became a small drop.

Don't be sad. The snowflake was not sad. Because its whole journey had been for this moment: for someone to look at it and say "how beautiful you are."

The drop soaked into the child's mitten. The child went home and hung the mitten beside the stove. The drop became steam, went up the chimney and rose into the sky. And it entered a cloud.

Tomorrow it will snow again. Maybe the same snowflake, maybe another. You hold out your hand too.