⏱ ~4 min reading
In March, when the snow was still lying in patches, but the black earth was already peeking through, Marinka and her father walked through the park to their grandmother. Marinka was carrying a wicker basket of homemade cookies — her mother had baked them especially for her grandmother, with cinnamon.
The air smelled of melting snow. It was a special smell—as if snow, damp bark, and a bit of spring wind had been mixed in one glass. Somewhere above—in the blue sky—the first cranes were calling.
— Dad, can you hear me?
"I hear you, daughter. They're going home.".
Marinka raised her head. The cranes flew in a thin, distant wedge. She watched until they disappeared behind the trees.
They walked on. The path was sloshing, sometimes with melted snow, sometimes with ice underfoot. Dad held Marinka by her boiled mitten.
— Dad, look!
Under an old beech tree, at the very edge of the island of land—where the snow melted first—stood a snowdrop. Real. White. Small. With two narrow leaves, like sharp sabers, and a thin stem, on which hung a flower—like a drop of milk. Inside—green droplets on the petals.
Marinka bent so low that her hair caught in the snow.
"Dad, does it smell?"
Dad bent down too.
"It almost doesn't smell. Just a little bit, like coolness and freshness. Smell it yourself.".
Marinka sniffed. The smell was barely perceptible—like breath. She stared at the flower for a long time.
"Dad. Can I pick it? I'll give it to Mom.".
Dad squatted down — to be at Marinka's level.
"Do you know, daughter, how long it stood here until it grew up? The snowdrop waits under the snow all winter. It sits in the ground, sleeps - and in the spring, as soon as the snow melts, it comes out. The first. The bravest of all the flowers.".
"Bolder? Why?"
"Because there are still frosts. At night. And he's already climbed out - and he's not afraid. Look how brave he is.".
Marinka looked at the snowdrop again. It was so thin that it seemed like the wind would bend it. But it was still standing.
"If I tear it off, will mom be happy?"
"For a day or so. It will wither by evening. Snowdrops don't like to be in a glass - they like the ground.".
— And if you leave it?
"It will stand for a few more days. Then it will wither on its own. But the seeds will fall into the ground. And next year there will be more than one here.".
Marinka thought. She imagined the flower standing crumpled in a glass on the kitchen table. And then — how here, under the beech tree, next spring there would be many white droplets.
— Dad, I have an idea. I'll take a picture of it. On your phone. And I'll show it to Mom. And the flower will stay.
Dad smiled—so broadly that the wrinkles came together near his eyes.
— Well done, daughter.
He took out his phone. Marinka bent down next to the snowdrop, careful not to touch it. Dad took a photo. Then another one — just a flower, a big one.
"Now mom will see him like we do. And how he lives.".
They moved on. Marinka looked back - the snowdrift stood behind them. Not destroyed. Whole.
They sat at Grandma's for a long time. Grandma gave them tea with raspberry jam. Marinka showed a photo. Grandma looked at it for a long time.
— The first one. When I was little, we used to find these. And we never tore them off.
— Why?
— Because my mother said: a flower that has been picked is beautiful for the day. A flower that has not been picked is beautiful for spring.
When Marinka came home, she showed her mother the photo. Mom looked at it for a long time. She hugged her tightly.
"This is the best gift, my daughter. It will always be on our phone. And that snowdrop will stay.".
Marinka went to bed feeling like she had done something important. And she dreamed of many, many white droplets under a beech tree. A whole flowerbed.
Maybe it really will be like that. Next spring.
💡 Beauty lives longer when it is not torn.