When I was
fourteen I went
sledding with the kids from church. And what I remember that night is buying
spoons and styrofoam cups to serve
hot chocolate after the party, and crossing the
parking lot at the grocery store, which, like the rest of the city, was
encrusted with ice.
What I remember is seeing
my friend Waylon, in
patchwork pants, underneath the
pinky glow of the streetlamp, a few feet away from his
truck and his
friends, all of whom were older than me. He said
hello and it hung in the air a few minutes: winter
fog and a
long look -
almost as if he really saw me.
Everyone seems to hate Gwyneth Paltrow, but you know this reminds me of a movie. I saw myself
wandering away from the good kids, over to
his side, where I would be
closer to home. I envisioned a whole
other version of the story of that night, and I still do.
I borrowed a
saucer sled in
pink.
This was a typical
Weiser winter; it had
snowed a few inches a few weeks before, it rained, and
froze again; the snow was so
hard you could really pick up speed on the mountain at the park.
I thought for a minute,
good, whee, and then, Jesus, I'm too fast, I'm out of control.
Bump made me jump.
I found myself on the
ground, face down,
my right cheek ripped to hamburger, the
saucer upside down and many feet away.
I got patched up at
Jodi's house (they were
good Mormons); her
brother ran down the hill for my glasses. And treated me to
my first slow dance.
There is
still scar tissue on my right cheek; it's not visible, but when
I put my face in my hands, I can feel it, still swollen, distorted.
I think about this when
I think about his heart. And
my heart. How things build up in memory, defense, and spite of the person who
dug out your ticker with a spoon x number years ago. I know it doesn't go away. I'm just hoping it will
mean less,
someday.