grip the steering column and climb the Piedmont hills with care.
Going home for Christmas, I drive slowly. The snow-ice dusts the roadways, and the salt trucks I pass are too few to keep the highways clear. On the bridge that spans the Yadkin River, my lightweight truck loses purchase. I tense and place a firm grip on the steering column as I slip up the bridge—an arabesque of ice and snow stretched over a river, blue and stiff with cold.
Turning onto my parents’ street, the snow thickens. Patches like thrown flour splotch my windshield, and when I finally pull into the driveway, the yard is speckled in white, and a long, green-white lawn follows the right side of the house and dips into the backyard before finally being halted from unrolling any further by the rusted barbed-wire fence. It looks like a rolling gumdrop dusted with powdered sugar. I am relieved to be here safe.
Mom rushes out, coatless. Without a way to call her and let her know I was safe, she has worried.
“Oh, we’re so glad to see you,” she says, hurrying to me. “Dad and I have been worried sick about you driving in this awful weather. They’re saying that the roads are icing over and it’s already sleeting. Is it as bad as they say?”
“It’s pretty bad. I wouldn’t suggest going anywhere tonight.”
“Well, we’re not. Everybody’s here. We’re just waiting on you.” She pulls me to her and hugs me. “We’re just glad you’re here safe. How did it go today in Chapel Hill?” I pass her my duffel bag full of dirty laundry. “What did the doctor say?” The snow whirls around us, peppers our hair.
“They said I’d live forever.” I smile to her as I hoist my backpack across my shoulders and gather CDs in my hands.
“Oh, that’s not funny, Son. You shouldn’t joke like that.”
“They said you and Dad should get me a cane for Christmas.”
“A cane?” Mom scrunches her face with worry. “Well, your father and I had concerns when we saw the size of that campus, but a cane? Does the doctor really think it’s that necessary? Would you have to always use it?”
“I don’t know. Guess so.”
We both grow quiet, the snow continuing around us.
“Well, come in. We’re so glad you’re finally home for a few days. We’ve hardly gotten to see you this fall.”
Inside, Mom has the table set for supper and the house decorated for the holidays. Nutcrackers stand in all the corners, garland twirls along the banister, and Christmas candles adorn the piano and the furniture, and when I take my bags downstairs to my room, the den smells sweetly of pine and the tree shimmers with silver and gold ornaments.
“Your dad and I just got that up last weekend,” Mom says when I stop to look. “It was different not having you to help this year.” She walks to thetree, reaches for a fallen ornament resting on the skirt. “Look here.” She cups it in her hand. “Do you remember when you made this?”
I look to the ceramic star painted by an inexpert hand, and admit that I don’t remember making it.
“First grade. We had that house in Indiana and you had just started at the elementary school there, and that year Louise lost her shoe in the snow and it wasn’t until spring that your dad found it laying over by the bird bath.” She stretches to replace the ornament on a green branch of spruce. “This is what you gave us that year.”
“Well, I didn’t make any of those in college, so it’s good you kept it.”
“Ha-ha.”
In my room, I unpack my things and then reach for a book to read. I prop my feet on my bed, turn to the first page. But it is not long before Louise comes down to tell me it’s time to eat, so I mark my place and go to join my family at the holiday table.
We all look out the window beside the dining room table and watch the snow still being drawn down in a slow drift of white.
“Maybe this year we’ll
Going home for Christmas, I drive slowly. The snow-ice dusts the roadways, and the salt trucks I pass are too few to keep the highways clear. On the bridge that spans the Yadkin River, my lightweight truck loses purchase. I tense and place a firm grip on the steering column as I slip up the bridge—an arabesque of ice and snow stretched over a river, blue and stiff with cold.
Turning onto my parents’ street, the snow thickens. Patches like thrown flour splotch my windshield, and when I finally pull into the driveway, the yard is speckled in white, and a long, green-white lawn follows the right side of the house and dips into the backyard before finally being halted from unrolling any further by the rusted barbed-wire fence. It looks like a rolling gumdrop dusted with powdered sugar. I am relieved to be here safe.
Mom rushes out, coatless. Without a way to call her and let her know I was safe, she has worried.
“Oh, we’re so glad to see you,” she says, hurrying to me. “Dad and I have been worried sick about you driving in this awful weather. They’re saying that the roads are icing over and it’s already sleeting. Is it as bad as they say?”
“It’s pretty bad. I wouldn’t suggest going anywhere tonight.”
“Well, we’re not. Everybody’s here. We’re just waiting on you.” She pulls me to her and hugs me. “We’re just glad you’re here safe. How did it go today in Chapel Hill?” I pass her my duffel bag full of dirty laundry. “What did the doctor say?” The snow whirls around us, peppers our hair.
“They said I’d live forever.” I smile to her as I hoist my backpack across my shoulders and gather CDs in my hands.
“Oh, that’s not funny, Son. You shouldn’t joke like that.”
“They said you and Dad should get me a cane for Christmas.”
“A cane?” Mom scrunches her face with worry. “Well, your father and I had concerns when we saw the size of that campus, but a cane? Does the doctor really think it’s that necessary? Would you have to always use it?”
“I don’t know. Guess so.”
We both grow quiet, the snow continuing around us.
“Well, come in. We’re so glad you’re finally home for a few days. We’ve hardly gotten to see you this fall.”
Inside, Mom has the table set for supper and the house decorated for the holidays. Nutcrackers stand in all the corners, garland twirls along the banister, and Christmas candles adorn the piano and the furniture, and when I take my bags downstairs to my room, the den smells sweetly of pine and the tree shimmers with silver and gold ornaments.
“Your dad and I just got that up last weekend,” Mom says when I stop to look. “It was different not having you to help this year.” She walks to thetree, reaches for a fallen ornament resting on the skirt. “Look here.” She cups it in her hand. “Do you remember when you made this?”
I look to the ceramic star painted by an inexpert hand, and admit that I don’t remember making it.
“First grade. We had that house in Indiana and you had just started at the elementary school there, and that year Louise lost her shoe in the snow and it wasn’t until spring that your dad found it laying over by the bird bath.” She stretches to replace the ornament on a green branch of spruce. “This is what you gave us that year.”
“Well, I didn’t make any of those in college, so it’s good you kept it.”
“Ha-ha.”
In my room, I unpack my things and then reach for a book to read. I prop my feet on my bed, turn to the first page. But it is not long before Louise comes down to tell me it’s time to eat, so I mark my place and go to join my family at the holiday table.
We all look out the window beside the dining room table and watch the snow still being drawn down in a slow drift of white.
“Maybe this year we’ll
Similar Books
Clallam Bay (A Fresh Start #2)
L. C. Morgan
What Is Visible: A Novel
Kimberly Elkins
A Necessary Sin
Georgia Cates
Matters of Faith
Kristy Kiernan
Broken Trust
Leigh Bale
Enid Blyton
MR. PINK-WHISTLE INTERFERES
Ravenspell Book 2: The Wizard of Ooze
David Farland
The Prefect
Alastair Reynolds
Prizes
Erich Segal
The Clockwork Wolf
Lynn Viehl