I wake to the second sprinkling of snow in this late-Fall-early-Winter period of limbo. The first snow arrived on Halloween, not enough to really stick, but this one seems like it might. I head outside to acclimate, fill my lungs with air at a cool 32 degrees. The clouds darken and I wonder, Do the clouds usually look so close? It feels as if I’m surrounded by mountains, I’m up at 7,000 feet at least, I must be—my mouth tastes like metal and I know there’s more snow to come.

The wind picks up; I hear cars out on the freeway coming back from their Thanksgiving holiday vacations, trips to see their beautiful families, and there’s the sound of the forward motion of my wind pant legs rubbing together, faster, faster, I’m almost home and I’m feeling rather psychotic. I hear a dog bark, look up—Damn, how long’ve I been staring at the blacktop—and see drooped shoulders heading into a kitchen warm and reeking of leftover turkey, carrying a rifle and an unopened 30-pack of Bud Light, trunk of the F150 hanging open revealing nothing but a cooler likely filled with a mostly-eaten plastic package of venison sticks wrapped up with a rubber band—same thing with the cheese sticks—a bottle of ketchup, one mayo, one mustard, the plastic bag that held the ice days ago, and water of questionable color. I wonder how many years in a row he’s returned from the woods with nothing to show for it.

The cool air in my lungs, now not just thrilling but hypnotic and hallucinating—with each step I’m feeling déjà vu and swear I’m about to hit the pavement, face first. One foot in front of the other, you silly girl, all you have to do is
just
get
home.

Maryssa grew up in rural northwestern Wisconsin and currently lives near the bay of Green Bay. In her free time, when not out admiring the sky, the birds and the trees, she attends book clubs and is a reader for two lit mags.