The Cloud Lab

In science class, Margot teaches them about the magic of snow. “Evaporation, condensation, deposition,” she says. On the whiteboard she draws shapes connected by wiggly arrows. She’s tall and wiry, spine curved from decades of bending over small desks. Her face crumples like paper when she smiles or laughs. The kids like her white hair, her billowy floral dresses.

Margot peels open a cardboard box and distributes the musty contents: boots and wool socks; fleece-lined ski masks; colourful snowsuits with drawstrings at the waist. She leads them down the hall in a bumbling single file. Her own coat seems to swallow her; she hasn’t worn it in decades. “Gloves on,” she beckons. “Let’s go, zippity-zip.” At the end of the corridor is a plain white door. Cloud Lab, the sign says. Caution – Extreme cold.

The lab has milky walls and a high, vaulted ceiling. A digital thermometer reads -40℃. The children squeal and marvel at their misty dragon breaths. They race across the room, cheeks red as hibiscus petals. At the control panel, Margot twists a dial and punches in a code. A humidifier hums beyond the walls, pumping in air saturated with water vapour. Soon the domed ceiling is foggy with clouds.

“When I was little, we had blizzards.” Margot stamps her boots for warmth. “Clumps of snowflakes you could catch on your tongue.” Her students stare and blink. The word flake confuses them.

“Like cereal?” a girl asks

 “No,” she laughs. “No.”

She talks of snow piling on rooftops. Burying cars. Three feet, five feet. Up to your waist! “We could swim in it,” she insists. They groan and roll their eyes. She reverse-twists the dial and the humidifier quiets. “We’d pack snow in our fists and build forts in the yard. Barrel down hills on flimsy plastic sleds.” Above them, the clouds grow like swirling cotton candy. “And the cold,” she exclaims, throwing up her hands. “It prickled like needles. Chilled you to the bone.”

One boy laughs, another pelts questions: Was it dangerous, the snow? Could you be smothered or drowned? They’ve never felt anything like the Cloud Lab before. Cold is for ice cream; AC in peak summer; lakes when you cannonball from sun-drenched docks. None of them know winter. None of them know bone-chilled. Margot bites her lip. She gropes for clear answers. Every year, she runs the experiment and tries to explain. Something is missing, something has been lost, but she can never find the words to describe why it matters.

And suddenly it’s snowing: a sprinkling, like confetti. The children fall silent. They squish shoulders and look up, captivated by the magic trick. Arms above their heads, mouths open, tongues out. Margot folds her hands and presses them over her heart. She remembers frost on windows, darkness in the street. And the rhythmic crunch-crunch of her father, shovelling.

“Touch it,” she encourages. “Each snowflake is different.” Her students catch flakes and slip-slide in their boots. They scoop up mounds and try to eat them before they melt. “More!” one girl chants, but Margot shakes her head no. The school has water restrictions: a strict weekly limit. But already they’ve lost interest. They complain about cold toes. Margot ushers them into the hall, where they immediately shed their layers. Snow puddles from their soles onto the speckled linoleum. Margot gathers their snowsuits. She unbuttons her coat. Somewhere deep inside is an ache that feels like homesickness, except she’s lived here her whole life.

Back in the classroom, the windows are open. The air is sweet and heavy with the scent of lemon trees. Along the road, the cacti bloom. Aeoniums reach for the sun.