Dear Grandma,
It has been a while since I last wrote to you. I’m furious, and I miss you madly. But, Gran, it’s not my fault. My father grounded me for the past week over something that was not completely my fault. And not only has winter stolen the daylight early, but he also won’t let me turn on the lights at night. He took away my pens and notebook, forcing me to go to bed ridiculously early—so early that even the wild dogs outside my window are laughing at me. I swear, Gran, I can hear them howling ironically. Dark, dark days.
And yet, I never expected such darkness, not after the kind of morning I woke up to last Monday.
I opened my eyes, and the room looked different. The light was strange. Softer, colder. I wondered why my mother hadn’t woken me up yet. Something felt off. I stayed perfectly still, secretly hoping she had forgotten that I had school. Minutes passed. Nothing happened. The house was quiet. Maybe I was dreaming?
I tiptoed to the window, and that’s when I saw it—the whole world was white.
Gran, it had snowed.
The entire village looked like it had been wrapped in a cloud of silence, a deep, peaceful hush. Even the trees stood still, their branches weighed down with soft mounds of snow. Smoke curled from the chimneys, twisting in the air like tiny ghosts dancing above the rooftops. Everyone was huddled inside, trying to keep warm. The road leading to our porch was untouched, pristine—so perfect I hesitated to step outside, afraid I’d ruin its quiet beauty.
It reminded me of you, Gran. Of how you wrapped me in those thick shawls you knitted, their warmth lasting even after you’d let go. Of the white sheets covering us near your chimney, where the fire crackled as you brewed your magical infusions—teas made from a thousand flowers and herbs you picked from your garden. Gran, how did you fit so much into one tiny cup? It was as if you poured the entire spring into a warm cup of winter.
But then it hit me. If it had snowed, school was canceled.
Not because the adults cared about us, but because our neighbor Fred would never risk his beloved one-million-year-old originally yellow bus on slippery roads just so, as he calls us, “little brats” could get an extra day of education.
Not that I blame him. That bus is as ancient as the Roman temples in the village, except the temples, at least, have been left alone in dignified ruins, while Fred’s bus keeps dragging itself along the roads like a wounded animal that refuses to die.
Fred brags that he’s never had to spend a single penny fixing it—either because it’s indestructible or because it’s been broken for so long that it just runs on sheer stubbornness. When it starts in the morning, the whole village hears it. First, a low, miserable groan, then a violent KA-THUNK, followed by a noise that sounds suspiciously like a dying cow choking on a tin can. Then, finally, a shudder, a wheeze, and an explosion of black smoke.
To be fair, Fred does try to “improve” the bus. A few months ago, he installed a wooden stove in the middle of the aisle, right between the rusty seats, telling us all to bring our own firewood if we wanted a warm trip to school. And so, every morning, we trudged in with logs tucked under our arms like villagers going on an expedition to the Arctic, stuffing them into the fire while the bus rumbled down the road.
By the time we reached the first bend in the road, a thick column of smoke would rise from the makeshift chimney Fred had welded onto the metal roof. Anyone watching from the hills would think the bus had caught fire or that we were operating a traveling bakery, roasting something in an oven on wheels.
Inside, it wasn’t much better. The bus windows would fog up from the heat, turning us into ghostly silhouettes pressed against the glass. The younger kids huddled close to the stove, their faces glowing red like freshly baked apples, while the older ones gasped for air near the back, where the smoke swirled in thick, choking clouds. If you sat too close, your coat smelled like burning wood for a week. If you sat too far, your teeth chattered so loudly it drowned out the engine.
And yet, somehow, it kept moving.
A roaring metal beast, wheezing its way through the valley, belching smoke into the sky, children’s faces squished against the windows like passengers on a doomed expedition to the underworld.
But the stove didn’t last long.
One morning, after a particularly sharp turn, a blazing log shot straight out of the stove and landed right between Kate and Jane—the two nerdiest girls in the village, their bags stuffed with more books than the library.
The whole bus nearly exploded, Gran.
I acted fast. Faster than anyone. While everyone screamed, I leapt to my feet, looking around wildly for something—anything—to put out the fire.
And then I saw them.
Fred’s curtains.
Not just any curtains, Gran. The original factory curtains that came with the bus decades ago. The ones he bragged about daily, claiming they were “still in perfect condition” and that “no other bus from the same era has them intact.” The ones he dusted lovingly every morning as if they were rare museum artifacts.
I ripped them straight off the window.
Fred would have wept.
But there was no time to think about that. I threw the fabric onto the burning log, stomping it down with my feet. It worked! The fire smothered beneath the heavy fabric, leaving behind nothing but black scorch marks and the smell of melted polyester.
The danger was over.
I turned around, expecting applause.
Instead, I saw Fred’s face.
His mouth was open. His eyes were bulging. He looked at the burnt, tattered remains of his beloved curtains, then at me, then back at the curtains.
For a full five seconds, no one spoke.
Then Fred let out a scream so loud the bus shook.
“MY CURTAINS!”
He nearly swerved into a ditch, muttering things that I think would get him kicked out of church.
I tried to explain, but all I managed to say was:
“Well, at least the bus didn’t explode?”
That didn’t help.
Fred grabbed an empty cigarette carton, scribbled down a furious note detailing “the deliberate destruction of valuable, historic bus property,” and shoved it into my bag ordering me to deliver it to my parents.
But, Gran, the moment he turned the key in the ignition and the bus roared to life with its usual ka-thunk-thunk-BOOM, I made my move.
I tossed the note straight into the stove.
If I was lucky, Fred would forget.
Standing by the door, I let out a deep breath. The bus story felt so far away now, like something that had happened in another lifetime. Today was a different kind of day.
The kind of day where the whole world is quiet.
The kind of day where the snow makes everything feel clean and new, like a fresh page in one of my notebooks.
The kind of day where I could pretend, just for a moment, that there was nothing to worry about.
And then—before I could enjoy that feeling for too long—my mother’s voice pulled me back to reality.
“Elie! Come inside! I have a surprise for you!”
I ran inside, my heart racing with excitement. She was making my favorite breakfast—eggs with sausages. A rare treat these days, since my father lost his job.
The stove was blazing, the pan sizzling with eggs and sausages, the fat crackling and releasing that rich, smoky smell that made my stomach ache with hunger. It was the kind of smell that wraps around you and pulls you toward the kitchen like an invisible rope. I could already taste it. I hurried to set the table, counting the seconds until my mother would announce that it was ready.
My father, in an unusually good mood, kept adding wood to the stove, a rare smile stretching across his face. We sat at the table, and I rushed through our usual prayer, stuttering the words but saying them loudly to mask the loud groans of my empty stomach. Just as I was about to dip my slice of bread into the pan, the doorbell rang.
I froze.
I held my breath, hoping—praying—that whoever was outside would think no one was home and leave us alone. But the bell rang again. And again. And again. It rang with the persistence of someone who had nothing better to do on a snowy Monday morning. My father sighed and got up, muttering under his breath, and went to open the door.
I sat there, paralyzed with dread. We couldn’t eat without him, and I knew—I knew—this wouldn’t end well.
And it didn’t.
It was the priest.
He had come to ask why we hadn’t gone to church on Sunday. What a silly excuse, Gran. I knew the real reason he was there. The smell of your sausage recipe must have escaped when I opened the door, wandered down the street, and found him. It probably grabbed him by the nose and dragged him all the way to our house.
My parents, of course, insisted he join us for breakfast. I counted the sausages: one, two, three. And then I counted us: one, two, three, four. I nearly fainted.
My mother called me into the kitchen under the pretense of fixing my bedroom, which I had already done. Once we were out of earshot, she whispered, “Don’t dip into the pan until the priest finishes eating. Don’t embarrass us, Elie. Those are the last three sausages we have. The adults should eat first. I’ll save you my piece.”
I nodded solemnly, though my stomach groaned in protest.
When we returned to the table, the priest was already washing his hands and preparing to sit down. I sat next to him, watching like a hawk. He picked up the first sausage. My mother and father took the second. My poor mother, bless her, pretended to feel nauseous and said she couldn’t eat fat in the morning, leaving the third piece untouched. I nearly cried with relief.
I nibbled on my bread, my eyes fixed on the pan, analyzing the priest’s every move like a detective solving a crime. He took a bite. He chewed. Slowly. My heart pounded with every movement of his jaw. Then, in a horrifying blur of motion, he gulped it down in one swift move.
My heart raced.
Thinking quickly, I poured him some fried eggs, hoping it would fill him up and spare my meat. He devoured the eggs in seconds.
I started sweating. My eyes widened in terror as I watched, in slow motion, his hand reach out to the pan. He picked up the last piece of sausage.
“No!” I wanted to scream, but the words stuck in my throat.
He brought the sausage to his mouth.
He bit into it.
I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I turned to my mother and screamed, “He ate them all! He gulped them all!”
The priest laughed, thinking it was a joke. My father did not. He shouted at me and sent me to my frozen room without any breakfast.
I lay there, staring at the ceiling, mourning the loss of my sausage.
Outside, the world was white. Everything was still and pure, the snow untouched, glowing softly under the pale winter sky.
But inside me, there was fire.
A fire of hunger, injustice, and fury. It burned hotter than Fred’s bus stove, hotter than the sausages sizzling in that pan before they were cruelly stolen from me.
I clenched my fists, feeling the heat of my anger spreading, warming my frozen body from the inside.
And then I thought of you, Gran.
Of your tea, steaming in my hands.
Of how, if you were here, you would have wrapped me in one of your shawls, brought me a hidden piece of meat, and sat beside me, whispering stories that made the hunger disappear.
And suddenly, the fire inside me softened.
The snow outside no longer felt like a cruel, mocking whiteness but something gentler, something quiet and safe.
I closed my eyes and imagined you there.
I miss you, Nana.
With love, always,
Your Little Prince
Photo by Rachel Clark on Unsplash
