I remember the day I saw the old sled.
The summer ground lay dry as a bone, and lazy dust-motes spun in the hot, slow air. The storage shed smelled of old paper, and it sat propped in the corner by the door. The sled was ancient; all parts worn smooth to the touch and no paint to be found, save a tired red still clinging to the metal supports.
Below my grandparents' house stretched The Hill, wide and steep with a flat run at the bottom. When the heavy snows came, and the school-closing snow days piled up, I was ready.
Wrestling the sled from its forgotten corner proved to be a job, and when I finally got it out, I was surprised at its length and heft. The sled was no piece of cheap construction: it was wood and steel, sturdy. I had to drag it, with the help of a discarded twine string I found in the barn lot.
The slick runners barely made an indentation in the snow behind me as I trudged across the yard and crawled under the fence.
My first rush down... bliss. The pure joy of nippy cheeks and whistling wind, of the ground-blur and the lurch of sharp corners.
That year, the snow brought possibilities, and a wild sort of freedom, not exile.
What's your favorite memory of a winter sport?
Heather S. Ingemar has loved to play with words since she was little, and it wasn’t long until she started writing her own stories. Termed “a little odd” by her peers, she took great delight in exploring tales with a gothic flair, and to this day, Edgar Allan Poe continues to be her literary hero. To learn more, please visit: http://ingemarwrites.wordpress.com/ or follow her on Twitter: http://twitter.com/heatheringemar
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