Frozen in Time

Dark. Cold. Still. I've stepped out onto the front porch of the farmhouse late at night into the silvery-blueness of a world newly blanketed by snow. I tuck my chin down into the upturned collar of my jacket as my eyes adjust. Pools of golden light shine warmly out of the living room windows behind me, cheerfully reminding me that it's not too late to reconsider my solitary evening walk down the lane. I can still smell the companionable smoke from Dad's pipe that has drifted out into the night air after me. Soon it fades away, leaving me alone with the sharp tang of frozen mountain air. The old wooden screen door settles back into its frame with a creak.

In the following silence, there is an illusion of absolute quiet. Then, like a flower unfolding petal by petal, the unique sounds of the farm after a snowfall begin to whisper their way into my consciousness. The wind sighs in the top of the statuesque hemlock tree that dwarfs the house. It is answered by the hollow rattle of branches in a nearby pear tree. A coyote calls faintly to its hunting mate as my boots carefully crunch their way down the icy front steps into the yard.  No flashlight is necessary. My path is magically illuminated by the few scattered points of light in the cove. They are somehow captured and eerily amplified between the snow-covered ground and the low, drifting ceiling of gray clouds above.  "Shussh, shusssh," the wind whispers in the row of white pines that Dad and I planted in my childhood. They gently loose a veil of snow to lightly drift across my face and hitchhike on my shoulders.

In the middle of the lane, I stop, close my eyes, and breathe in deeply. It's suddenly midnight forty years ago, and I'm dragging my sled back up the lane after a breath-taking plummet down the hill behind the house. Aging kerosene lanterns suspended on tobacco sticks illuminate the danger of the shadowy ditch on either side of the slope. My breath freezes in front of my nose and my cheeks tingle redly in the cold. "H-e-y!" the echo of my brother's voice calls down to me from the hillside, "You coming?" I smile to myself and holler back. I'll be there in a minute.... just as soon as I take another snapshot with my memory.

Kay O'Hara
February 4, 2011