He allows himself to doze after dinner, and he falls into that memory of frost, that morning of his mother’s birthday, that morning when ice glistened around each blade of grass outside.
It is winter, and Willie is five or six years old. Darryl is maybe seventeen, and Willie can feel his brother’s big hands on his shoulders, gently yet firmly rocking him awake. He opens an eye; Darryl’s face looks down at him, the world out the window behind him white in early sunlight. Willie squints his eyes against the glare, puts his arms over his eyes.
“I gotta show you something.”
Darryl pulls Willie upright. Willie stands; cold air pools around his feet.
“Here.” Darryl flings his pants toward him, a shirt. “Get dressed. Quick.”
“What is it?”
“Just dress!”
“I’m dressing.” Willie’s teeth chatter as he steps into one pants leg, then the other. He pulls on his shirt, then looks around the floor for his shoes. “It’s cold!”
“It’s cold. I know it’s cold. ’Fore it warms up I want you to see.”
“See what?”
“Just come on!”
Darryl leads him to the kitchen and opens the back door. Outside, Willie sees a world that has been tranformed overnight, silvered and stilled into a glinting glassy dream. Willie has seen nothing like it before; he doesn’t know what he is looking at.
“A frost,” Darryl says. “Ain’t that something?”
“Frost,” Willie repeats. He looks at the brittle icy grass in wonder.
“Ain’t been this cold in years,” Darryl says, stepping outside. “I remember the first time I saw a frost I thought the grass was covered in ash.” He looks over his shoulder, toward where Willie stands in the doorway. “Well, come on!” he says.
Willie steps outside; the light of the yard is blinding after the shadows inside, dazzling. The grass crunches beneath his feet, less like glass than straw. It’s like standing in a field of diamonds, Willie thinks, and he shivers. But he does not go inside, not yet; he stays where he is, watching his white breath curl away and slowly mingle with the world’s cold air, watching himself breathe for the first time.