sliding her way home

‘We are both the Id and the Empty Well’

Carefully bundled, hat, green with a yellow pom-pom, boots, black, coat blue, navy verging on ultramarine, scarf, hand-knitted, opened this very morning, rainbow of varied yarn, all from the markdown bin, mittens, too young still for gloves, yellow to match the pom-pom flopping with every labored step up the slick slope, a choice to make, middle or top, one safe, the other thrilling, tracing the footsteps of relatives now content to sip cider and gossip in front of the snapping pine, warmed by memories, tales shared, given to each generation in turn, the spell of the hill, and a red sled, and carefully bundled, she went all the way to the top… and slid home.


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