Hessa Sees Her First Snow at Grandpa Haitham's Mountain House

Hessa had lived all her life in a city by the sea, where the summers were hot and the winters were mild and sunny. She had seen palm trees and sand dunes and the bright blue water. But she had never, ever seen snow.

So when Mama said, "This winter we will visit Grandpa Haitham in the mountains," Hessa jumped up and down so hard that the plates rattled.

"Will there be snow?" she asked.

"Maybe," said Mama. "Snow is like a shy cat. It comes when it wants to."

They flew on an airplane and drove for a long time on a road that wound up and up, round and round, between dark green pine trees. The air grew cooler. Hessa's breath made a little cloud on the car window, and she drew a smiling face in it with her finger.

Grandpa Haitham's house was small and made of grey stone, with a red roof and a chimney that puffed smoke like a sleepy dragon. Grandpa stood at the door in a thick brown sweater. He had bushy white eyebrows and the warmest hands in the world.

"Welcome, welcome, my little sea pearl!" he said, and he hugged Hessa so tightly that her feet left the ground.

Inside, a fire crackled in a big stone fireplace. The house smelled of wood smoke, cinnamon, and oranges.

"Grandpa," said Hessa, "will it snow?"

Grandpa sniffed the air at the window like a wise old dog. "Hmm," he said. "The clouds are heavy and grey. The air smells cold and clean. Perhaps tonight."

Hessa could not wait for tonight. She pressed her nose against the cold window. She watched the grey clouds. She watched the bare branches. She asked, "Is it snowing yet?" so many times that Mama laughed and gave her a jigsaw puzzle to do.

But no snow came. Not at dinner. Not during the story Grandpa told by the fire. Not when Hessa brushed her teeth.

"Snow is like a shy cat," Mama reminded her, tucking her into a big bed piled with blankets. "You cannot hurry it."

Hessa sighed. She lay under the heavy blankets and listened to the fire popping downstairs. Slowly, her eyes closed.

In the morning, something was different.

The light coming through the curtains was strange. It was bright, but soft, and very white. The house was quiet in a new way, as if the whole world was holding its breath.

Hessa jumped out of bed and pulled open the curtains.

"Oh!" she breathed.

Everything was white.

The garden was white. The stone wall was white. The pine trees wore thick white coats on every branch. The red roof of the shed had vanished under a fat white cushion. And from the pale sky, tiny white flakes were still drifting down, slowly, gently, turning and dancing as they fell.

"Mama! Grandpa! It's SNOWING!"

She raced downstairs in her pajamas. Grandpa was waiting by the door with a pile of warm clothes.

"Not so fast, little pearl," he laughed. "Snow is cold. First we dress like an onion, layer after layer."

Hessa put on thick socks, and another pair of socks. A sweater, and a coat. A woolly hat with a pom-pom. Mittens that Grandpa had borrowed from the neighbor's daughter. A long red scarf. She could hardly bend her arms.

Grandpa opened the door.

Cold air rushed in, crisp and sharp, and it made Hessa's nose tingle. She took one careful step outside.

Crunch.

Her boot sank into the snow. It made a soft, squeaky, crunchy sound, like stepping on a bag of sugar. She took another step. Crunch. And another. Crunch, crunch, crunch. She looked back and saw her footprints following her, neat and deep.

A snowflake landed on her mitten. Hessa held very still and looked at it. It was not just a white dot. It was a tiny star, with six delicate arms, each one covered in even tinier branches, like lace. Then, as she watched, it melted into a drop of water.

"Grandpa," she whispered, "every snowflake is a tiny star."

"Every single one," said Grandpa. "And no two are ever the same."

Hessa tipped her head back and opened her mouth. Snowflakes landed on her tongue, cold and light, and vanished. They tasted like nothing at all, and also like the sky.

Then she scooped up a handful of snow. It was cold even through the mittens. She squeezed it, and it became a ball.

"Can we make a snowman?" she asked.

They rolled a big ball for the bottom, pushing it across the garden until it grew fat and heavy and left a green path in the snow behind it. They rolled a middle ball, and Grandpa lifted it on top with a grunt. Hessa rolled the head herself. It was a little lumpy, but it was perfect.

Mama brought out two black olives for eyes and a carrot for a nose. Hessa found pine cones for buttons. Grandpa took off his own brown scarf and wrapped it around the snowman's neck.

"What shall we call him?" asked Grandpa.

Hessa thought. "Bahr," she said. "Because he is my first snowman, and I come from the sea."

They stood back and admired Bahr. He looked very handsome in his brown scarf.

Then Hessa noticed something. Her toes were cold. Her nose was red. Her cheeks felt stiff, like they had been painted.

"Grandpa," she said, "the snow is wonderful, but I think I am turning into a snowman too."

Grandpa laughed his big warm laugh. "Then it is time for the best part of snow," he said.

"What's that?"

"Coming back inside."

They stamped their boots on the step and peeled off all the layers, one by one. Grandpa made hot milk with honey and a pinch of cinnamon. Hessa sat by the crackling fire with a blanket around her shoulders and her toes slowly warming, pink and tingly.

Through the window, she could see Bahr standing proudly in the garden, with snowflakes still landing gently on his olive eyes.

"Grandpa," she said, sipping her milk, "snow was worth waiting for."

Grandpa smiled and put another log on the fire. "The best things usually are, little pearl," he said.