I’m thinking of the sledding hill on my childhood street tonight.
How tall it felt flying down in a saucer sled
Falling out before running into the small copse of pines
That promised hard impact with low, snagging branches.
I remember one winter Nick loaned me his snowboard
How I slid down the expanse of white with gritted teeth.
Swaying, arms outstretched,
Too much Indiana in my legs, too flat and straight,
How impossible it felt, fall after fall,
Face first, tangled akimbo, snow hard against my nose.
Unclip, trudge up, try again.
Bend the knees, look up and forward. Want it so badly.
And then…balance. Something akin to flight.
I’m to the right of the trees, safe and upright at the base of the hill.
The exuberant cheers of the few children at the peak muffled in the snowfall.
Mine as well, then my immediate need to go again, and again.
To rush down, to twist, then jump, and almost fly, if only for a few seconds at a time.
Until the snow was mush and the hill a mess of compressed boot prints
And we, exhausted in the twilight, pink-faced and past freezing
Had to heed the sun and head home for warmth.

Had it always been so short? The hill, I mean.
I drove by many years ago, just to check.
The pine trees had been trimmed, bare trunks for safer traffic.
And the little dip for jumping had been leveled, boring.
Would I even have time to teeter on such a mound?
I’d like to say that I was sad, but I’d be lying.
There is a comfort in knowing you’ve outgrown your past.
That you are meant for bigger heights,
And that you can make it safely down.
I drove on.

****

Note: Pearwood isn’t my street, but I can’t go putting my childhood street name on the internet for all to see, now can I?