Descriptive Essay
A Winter Stroll
Outside, the colorful world has all been covered by pure white snow, solemn, tranquil and clean. The windows in the houses are taught by nature to draw frost flowers on the pane, with a thick layer of ice blossoms expanding the entire glass, forbidding people from watching the outer world. Households are cooking warm dinners, with soups exhaling swirls of white mist bringing ambrosial scents. Other fried vegetable dishes are also fixed and placed on the table waiting for loved ones to come back. Most families will go directly watching TV after a square meal. But having had a full stomach and a warmed body, I put on my turtleneck and a big thick red down garment and go out strolling with my mother.
The outside is darkening but not black yet. With the glittering reflection of the white snow, the world looks brighter than it should be for the time. The air is breezing gently with no nipping wind. But chilly as it is, a shudder convulses my body and I subconsciously put my hands in my pockets. Looking around, colorful lights are shining from windows of households sending a sense of warmth, which would strike the particular nerve of a drifter who is far apart from his home. After the snow has stopped for hours, there are already pathways of solidified snow on which it is easy to walk, but I choose to step onto the untouched grounds of soft fluffy snow without any footprints and decide to create a new path on my own. I want to draw a meandering trail of footprint behind, mingled with the sound of snow squishing by my shoes, and bring myself into a childhood recall.
I like to go out in winter with mom. Hand in hand, we move slowly together with split steps to prevent a slipping on the snow. When I was young, she usually took me home from school. On the way, time after time, she would bend down checking if my scarf is covering all the facial parts below my eyes so that I wouldn’t be hit by the whipping winter wind. Every time, mom would buy me a stick of haws wrapped up with syrup and then I would happily eat while telling my everyday school stories to mom. Sometimes the falling snow was also quietly joining us listening to my lovely children narratives. Sometimes the two of us were also excited enough to sing out melodies freely and loudly with no regard of passers-by and with no care about whether my scarf is wrapping well at my face or not. Mom is a good singer and I used to be a good mimicker. Especially after a big snow, when the whole city was quieting down and the noisy traffic was being soothed, there came our sweet singing, with ripples of echoes lingering in the air……
Now, years have passed and I have grown to a near height as mom. I’m not any more the little girl calling for protection or attentive care, but an adult determined to face up to ups and downs in life and choose my own way of living. I have become independent enough to live well all by myself in a far away place from my hometown pursuing a higher education and an unknown future, but the busy-going life rarely leaves room for me to go back and accompany mom and from a certain point, going back has become a luxury. But this moment, on a most lovely winter evening, gratefully, I’m standing right beside mom, walking along with her and chatting with her. I could intimately cling tight to her arm, whisper upon her ears telling my little secrets and nestle up to her whenever I want. Unwittingly, I start to talk about my exciting experiences in my school life. I become so into the silver tranquil ambience with mom's company that I express my stories on and on with endless thrill as if I'm now a primary school girl again. A stream of warmth from the bottom of my heart rises and I couldn't help with tears when I see mom's eyes twinkle again with the same affection as she used to look at me when I was younge, but with the only difference of some more obvious wrinkles marking stepps of age.
A wisp of air sweeps across the snow and caresses us with a pure and fresh scented soft touch and I silently have a deep breathe. Not far away, three frozen red-faced children are making a snowman in a once-green lawn, running, laughing and cheering. I look at them, and turn to my mom, saying, “Mom, you know what?”, “it is not these kids that remind me of my carefree childhood, but you! I’m your little daughter forever!”
A Winter Stroll
Outside, the colorful world has all been covered by pure white snow, solemn, tranquil and clean. The windows in the houses are taught by nature to draw frost flowers on the pane, with a thick layer of ice blossoms expanding the entire glass, forbidding people from watching the outer world. Households are cooking warm dinners, with soups exhaling swirls of white mist bringing ambrosial scents. Other fried vegetable dishes are also fixed and placed on the table waiting for loved ones to come back. Most families will go directly watching TV after a square meal. But having had a full stomach and a warmed body, I put on my turtleneck and a big thick red down garment and go out strolling with my mother.
The outside is darkening but not black yet. With the glittering reflection of the white snow, the world looks brighter than it should be for the time. The air is breezing gently with no nipping wind. But chilly as it is, a shudder convulses my body and I subconsciously put my hands in my pockets. Looking around, colorful lights are shining from windows of households sending a sense of warmth, which would strike the particular nerve of a drifter who is far apart from his home. After the snow has stopped for hours, there are already pathways of solidified snow on which it is easy to walk, but I choose to step onto the untouched grounds of soft fluffy snow without any footprints and decide to create a new path on my own. I want to draw a meandering trail of footprint behind, mingled with the sound of snow squishing by my shoes, and bring myself into a childhood recall.
I like to go out in winter with mom. Hand in hand, we move slowly together with split steps to prevent a slipping on the snow. When I was young, she usually took me home from school. On the way, time after time, she would bend down checking if my scarf is covering all the facial parts below my eyes so that I wouldn’t be hit by the whipping winter wind. Every time, mom would buy me a stick of haws wrapped up with syrup and then I would happily eat while telling my everyday school stories to mom. Sometimes the falling snow was also quietly joining us listening to my lovely children narratives. Sometimes the two of us were also excited enough to sing out melodies freely and loudly with no regard of passers-by and with no care about whether my scarf is wrapping well at my face or not. Mom is a good singer and I used to be a good mimicker. Especially after a big snow, when the whole city was quieting down and the noisy traffic was being soothed, there came our sweet singing, with ripples of echoes lingering in the air……
Now, years have passed and I have grown to a near height as mom. I’m not any more the little girl calling for protection or attentive care, but an adult determined to face up to ups and downs in life and choose my own way of living. I have become independent enough to live well all by myself in a far away place from my hometown pursuing a higher education and an unknown future, but the busy-going life rarely leaves room for me to go back and accompany mom and from a certain point, going back has become a luxury. But this moment, on a most lovely winter evening, gratefully, I’m standing right beside mom, walking along with her and chatting with her. I could intimately cling tight to her arm, whisper upon her ears telling my little secrets and nestle up to her whenever I want. Unwittingly, I start to talk about my exciting experiences in my school life. I become so into the silver tranquil ambience with mom's company that I express my stories on and on with endless thrill as if I'm now a primary school girl again. A stream of warmth from the bottom of my heart rises and I couldn't help with tears when I see mom's eyes twinkle again with the same affection as she used to look at me when I was younge, but with the only difference of some more obvious wrinkles marking stepps of age.
A wisp of air sweeps across the snow and caresses us with a pure and fresh scented soft touch and I silently have a deep breathe. Not far away, three frozen red-faced children are making a snowman in a once-green lawn, running, laughing and cheering. I look at them, and turn to my mom, saying, “Mom, you know what?”, “it is not these kids that remind me of my carefree childhood, but you! I’m your little daughter forever!”
