The old woman squinted to make out the approaching figure, then groaned when she recognized the young girl. As the girl neared, the woman’s black coat began to feel too heavy.

“Quit your flitting about, Millie,” the old woman scolded.

“I’m not flitting. I’m dancing,” said the girl. “It’s what I do when I’m excited.”

“Hmph.” The old woman turned up her nose. 

Millie smiled as each prancing step melted the snow underfoot. “Don’t ya think you’ve been here a long time?” 

Well, that drew another grumble from the old woman, and she shooed the girl with her papery-skinned hand. “You run along, Millie.” 

“Nope. Ain’t going,” she said, stomping one foot then the other into the ground. 

“You listen here, missy, I’ve still got time left.” She muttered under her breath, “Phil said so.” 

“That dumb ol’ groundhog!” Millie marched closer, meeting the old woman’s grimace with a squinch. “He saw his dumb ol’ shadow six weeks ago, Agnes. Six. Weeks. Ago.” 

“Well, he just saw it again.”

“It don’t work that way, Ag-nes.” 

The woman sniffed and turned her head. “Well, I’m not leaving, and that’s that.” 

Millie could be dramatic, flailing her arms and such. In a voice that made the trees shudder, she whined, “But, you’re confuuuusing the tulips!”

Surely there was a warm heart underneath the old woman’s chilly exterior. Surely. 

Then again, maybe not. 

Agnes huffed and puffed and shook her head, “No one likes tiptoeing through those tulips.”

“Looky here, my flowers have had a nice long rest, now they’re ready to pop up and get picked and be called pretty and stuff.”

Agnes thumped her cane on the ground with each word. “I’m not budging.”

“What about the bees. Don’t ya care about the bees?”

“No.

“Cicadas?” 

Agnes shook her head. 

“Grasshoppers? 

“Not my problem.” 

Millie plotted for a moment, and then a wide grin spread across her freckled face. “What if I sit down anyway?” she challenged. “I’ll sit my cute fanny down right here beside you.”

Agnes gasped. They both knew it was against the rules; only one could sit on the bench at a time. 

Agnes waggled a finger at Millie. “Don’t you do it, you stinker you.”

The girl moved to the side, spun around, and backed up until the back of her knees touched the wooden edge. 

“Don’t.”

Millie smoothed her cotton skirt and flicked her best wicked smile at Agnes.

“Don’t you—“

And just like she’d threatened, Millie plopped right down on that bench. 

At first, nothing happened. But then…

The ground beneath their feet shivered. On Millie’s side, green grass sprouted, breaking apart the snow. A bright purple crocus popped into sight from its bulb.

The old woman’s eyes burst wide. “Get up right now,” she snapped.

“No,” retorted Millie.

Agnes’s chapped lips tightened in a rigid line as a cold wind swirled around Millie and the fresh flower. The beautiful crocus shuddered and then slumped. 

“You killed it!” the girl shrieked. 

“Did not.” Agnes cast a side eye at the sad-looking flower. “It’s just a little wilted around the edges.” 

Some lingering snow hanging onto a branch suddenly melted and dripped water atop Agnes’s hat. She snapped her head back just as another drop fell and landed on the tip of her nose.

“You stop that!”

Frost crossed the line between them and invaded the green grass around Millie. Green ivy climbed up the back of the bench where Agnes sat, and crept along her fur collar before flicking her chin. The sun came and went like it couldn’t make up its mind. A breeze blew, then stilled. Snowflakes twirled, and turned to rain before they hit the ground. Pops of green and yellow appeared before fading to grey again. The fighting continued until Agnes and Millie grew dizzy and yelled, “Enough!” at the same time.

“Look what you did,” Agnes accused, but her tone wavered a bit. 

“We both did it,” corrected Millie. 

They sat in silence, looking at the clear-cut line drawn between them, warmth and color on one side, cold and white on the other. They knew the world wasn’t meant to be like that. 

“Why won’t you go?” Millie asked, looking into the woman’s tired eyes.

Agnes sighed and firmed her grip on her cane. “They cursed at me. Mushed up my beautiful snow.“

“What do you mean?”

“I gave them a spectacular arctic vortex, and no one appreciated it. ‘I’m too cold. Can’t get the car out. I hate shoveling.’ All they did was fuss.” Her voice trailed off. “They used to like to watch my snow fall.” 

“Maybe a few, but others couldn’t wait to go sledding. Build snow people. And they all begged for your snow on Christmas, didn’t they?” 

“Well, I guess that’s true.” 

“I pinky promise it’s true.” 

“But, what if I leave and then don’t come back next year?”

Millie splat the palm of her hand against her forehead. Is that the idea that had crawled up in Agnes’s ugly hat and settled in her brain?

“Agnes, for sure you’ll come back. The world slows down when you come. Why, you’re the nap time we all need, so me and my flowers don’t wake up fussy.” Millie reached over and patted the old woman’s wrinkled hand. “But now it’s my time to get things moving again. It’s been that way forever and will be that way forevermore.” 

The old woman’s glum expression perked up a bit. “You’re sure?” 

“Why, I’m as sure as I like mint chocolate chip ice cream, sure.” 

Agnes kicked up the last bit of snow with the toe of her boot and sighed. 

“It’s my turn,” said Millie. 

The old woman didn’t argue this time. She leaned forward, steadying herself with her cane as she stood. 

A daffodil poked its happy yellow head up beside her. It was time for spring.