Snowflakes sprinkle the ground like tiny diamonds falling from the heavens. I try to wipe off the frosted window with the edge of my sleeve. The snow is falling faster now and the visibility outside is almost nonexistent. Grandmother has started playing Christmas songs on the record player to attempt to mask the howling wind which shakes the log cabin. White ghosts wander around the fir trees and hug the mountains. Girls dance among the snow like winter fairies. Snow covers Grandmother's axe which is left on the cutting block. I worry it will rust.

I hear water boiling in our tin kettle over the fire and wonder if Grandmother is making her special tea. I hear a creak of the floorboards as she kneels by the fireplace. Grandmother is getting old but she tries to hide it. She shrugs of the limp which started last summer and has only gotten worse. Her health has only made it more difficult to garden and yet she remains stubborn and will not let me help her. I listen as the tea bubbles and splashes around the kettle. It's supposed to help her arthritis but I don't think it does. Still, she continues to drink it.

I take my eyes off the snow and wander around the kitchen opening up cabinets and staring at their contents. I wonder what I could make for dinner. Maybe spaghetti; Grandmother always loves spaghetti. She says it reminds her of when she was a young girl in Italy. Grandmother often tells me stories of Italy while I sit on the dusty red rug and stare intently at her, soaking up her memories. She says it was a lot simpler back then; a lot less angry, or at least that's the way she always describes it. Once in a while I ask her if she can tell me a story about my mother but she always shakes her head and mumbles words I cannot make out. I know she doesn't like to speak about life outside the cabin. It reminds her of how society changed my mother. It worries Grandmother that I want to know about life outside the cabin. She knows she won't be able to keep me here much longer.

The chains clasped around my ankles clank as they slide across the ground. I grab the spaghetti and the jar of tomato sauce my grandmother has been keeping in the ice box. Grandmother turns up the music louder. I have heard this record nearly a thousand times. I know it line for line. The jar of tomato slips off the counter and shards of glass fly across the floor. They are twinkling snowflakes and I want to grab them and feel them melt in my hands. I want to feel the cool earth under my fingernails. I want to feel the intricate snowflakes spray across my face and find shelter in my hair. I want to feel a blizzard but instead I am trapped inside a flimsy log cabin. I am a prisoner. I begin to cry.