Prompt: Winter.
I'm re-posting this with some editing. Also, apparently I somehow left part of it out last time. So.
All the white horses are still in bed
I tell you that I’ll always want you near
You say that things change, my dear
-Tori Amos.
“Mittens?”, he says. The little girl, his daughter, stops with the door open and turns around.
“Oh, yeah.”
She holds out her hands and he tugs them on, one at a time, and tucks them securely into the sleeves of her red winter coat.
“You’re just going down to the field, right? You’re going sledding with the kids from the neighborhood?”, he asks.
“Yeah. Kaylee said she’s going sledding and... I’m gonna go sledding. It’s a really big hill, and sometimes you fall off before you even get to the bottom but it doesn’t even hurt.” Her explanation is punctuated by sniffs.
He pulls a handkerchief out of his back pocket and wipes her nose.
“There you go, Boo. Have fun.”
She walks outside and he shuts the door behind her. She stands for a moment on the stoop, considering her path, before tromping down the front steps and out of the driveway. There are happy voices carrying up from the field in the park and she heads toward them, occasionally pausing to admire the fresh tracks her little boots make in the snow.
When she gets close enough to the field to look down the hill, though, she can see the that kids are big kids. She wanted to sled, but not alone. She starts back up to the house, about to call it a day, when she remembers that her daddy won’t want to help her with her boots, her snow pants, and her mittens all over again. It was like when she and her friends ran in and out of the house in warmer weather, slamming the door; he’d say, “In or out, guys. Jeez, Boo, when you gonna make up your mind?”
Instead, she walks over the driveway to the backyard. She makes the biggest snowball that she can and keeps rolling it until she can barely push it. Then she makes another and rolls it until she can barely pick it up, and puts it on top of the bigger one. She makes a big snowball to put on top. A nice snowman, she thinks, and wishes she had a magic hat to make him come to life and play with her. She wouldn’t even need a sled then, because Frosty in the movie could toboggan with his body. This makes her want to go inside and watch Frosty with a nice hot mug of cocoa, but she still has to wait a little while before going back in.
She lies on her back and then closes her eyes under the bright sun.
It’s the late morning.
She pretends that she’s Sleeping Beauty waiting for the prince, and she curves her mouth in imitation of that spellbound, frozen, beautiful smile.
--
Those winter mornings are a blurred outline, a vague memory filled with dialogue that is probable at best. Her father might have been fighting with her mother that day. He may have been short-tempered in that meaningless way that she did not notice until later, did not pick up on like she always did with her mother. He was always the fun parent, her favorite parent (as she had told her mother secretly, with the solemnity of a six-year-old.)
Ten, eleven, and twelve years later she sleeps late. In the late afternoon she shuffles down to the kitchen and makes herself a cup of tea. She drinks it silently at the kitchen table behind her father, who watches television in the living room. She ignores his idle small talk, grits her teeth when he calls her name from another room, and fairly spits responses to direct questions.
Some winter mornings she wakes up early. She sees that it has snowed and stares out at the deep drifts, resting her chin on the windowsill.
--
It took her father a bit longer to find her in the afternoon, asleep in the backyard next to a sweating snowman.
He nudged her shoulder gently, saying, “Wake up, Boo. You wanna go inside?”
She half wakes up and murmurs, “Yeah. Wanna go inside. Wanna watch Frosty the Snowman. Can I have hot choc’late?”
“Yeah, honey. Let’s go.”
“Can you carry me?”
He picks her up with an exaggerated groan, saying, “I can’t always be doing this. Pretty soon you’ll be too big to carry.” Though this saddens her, tugs at her sleepy mind, she can’t imagine that it is true.
All the white horses are still in bed
I tell you that I’ll always want you near
You say that things change, my dear
-Tori Amos.
“Mittens?”, he says. The little girl, his daughter, stops with the door open and turns around.
“Oh, yeah.”
She holds out her hands and he tugs them on, one at a time, and tucks them securely into the sleeves of her red winter coat.
“You’re just going down to the field, right? You’re going sledding with the kids from the neighborhood?”, he asks.
“Yeah. Kaylee said she’s going sledding and... I’m gonna go sledding. It’s a really big hill, and sometimes you fall off before you even get to the bottom but it doesn’t even hurt.” Her explanation is punctuated by sniffs.
He pulls a handkerchief out of his back pocket and wipes her nose.
“There you go, Boo. Have fun.”
She walks outside and he shuts the door behind her. She stands for a moment on the stoop, considering her path, before tromping down the front steps and out of the driveway. There are happy voices carrying up from the field in the park and she heads toward them, occasionally pausing to admire the fresh tracks her little boots make in the snow.
When she gets close enough to the field to look down the hill, though, she can see the that kids are big kids. She wanted to sled, but not alone. She starts back up to the house, about to call it a day, when she remembers that her daddy won’t want to help her with her boots, her snow pants, and her mittens all over again. It was like when she and her friends ran in and out of the house in warmer weather, slamming the door; he’d say, “In or out, guys. Jeez, Boo, when you gonna make up your mind?”
Instead, she walks over the driveway to the backyard. She makes the biggest snowball that she can and keeps rolling it until she can barely push it. Then she makes another and rolls it until she can barely pick it up, and puts it on top of the bigger one. She makes a big snowball to put on top. A nice snowman, she thinks, and wishes she had a magic hat to make him come to life and play with her. She wouldn’t even need a sled then, because Frosty in the movie could toboggan with his body. This makes her want to go inside and watch Frosty with a nice hot mug of cocoa, but she still has to wait a little while before going back in.
She lies on her back and then closes her eyes under the bright sun.
It’s the late morning.
She pretends that she’s Sleeping Beauty waiting for the prince, and she curves her mouth in imitation of that spellbound, frozen, beautiful smile.
--
Those winter mornings are a blurred outline, a vague memory filled with dialogue that is probable at best. Her father might have been fighting with her mother that day. He may have been short-tempered in that meaningless way that she did not notice until later, did not pick up on like she always did with her mother. He was always the fun parent, her favorite parent (as she had told her mother secretly, with the solemnity of a six-year-old.)
Ten, eleven, and twelve years later she sleeps late. In the late afternoon she shuffles down to the kitchen and makes herself a cup of tea. She drinks it silently at the kitchen table behind her father, who watches television in the living room. She ignores his idle small talk, grits her teeth when he calls her name from another room, and fairly spits responses to direct questions.
Some winter mornings she wakes up early. She sees that it has snowed and stares out at the deep drifts, resting her chin on the windowsill.
--
It took her father a bit longer to find her in the afternoon, asleep in the backyard next to a sweating snowman.
He nudged her shoulder gently, saying, “Wake up, Boo. You wanna go inside?”
She half wakes up and murmurs, “Yeah. Wanna go inside. Wanna watch Frosty the Snowman. Can I have hot choc’late?”
“Yeah, honey. Let’s go.”
“Can you carry me?”
He picks her up with an exaggerated groan, saying, “I can’t always be doing this. Pretty soon you’ll be too big to carry.” Though this saddens her, tugs at her sleepy mind, she can’t imagine that it is true.