This is a story, told the way you say stories should be told: Somebody grew up, fell in love, and spent the winter with her lover in the country. This, of course, is the barest outline, and futile to discuss. It’s as pointless as throwing birdseed on the ground while snow still falls fast. Who expects the small things to survive when even the larger ones get lost? People forget years and remember moments. Seconds and symbols are left to sum things up: the black shroud over the pool. Love, in its shortest form, becomes a word. What I remember about that time is one winter. The snow. Even now, saying ‘snow,’ my lips move so that they kiss the air.
-from "Snow" by Ann Beattie, Where You’ll Find Me and Other Stories