Hey Reporters! Happy 2 year anniversary of the Abby Report.
This year has been hectic, and I only remembered that this event was coming up like five days ago. So I decided to go with something unique but special as a celebration!
Let’s face it; the sledding short story wasn’t great. I’ve decided to rewrite it, changing a few minor details, and it’ll be longer and I’ll hopefully do it better. 👍
The waves crash against the shore and the sun is warm against my cheeks. Cuban music spills out from a restaurant on the street. I sit up, my eyes searching the cyan ocean for my children, Lily and Carter. I spot them splashing around a couple yards out.
I settle back down in my beach chair, resuming the horror novel I’ve become invested in. Suddenly, someone grabs my shoulders from behind and I jump, whirling around. It’s only Jessie, my twin, my best friend since the day we were born. She laughs as I furrow my eyebrows in anger, showing her the cover of my book. “Worst time ever.” I say.
She holds up a brown paper bag with the name of the Cuban restaurant on it. My kids run up and grab their food, sitting down on the warm sand to gobble it up. I slather them with sunscreen when they’re done eating before they can run away and finally sit down in my chair beside Jessie.
Jessie is an accountant, but she’s very fun-loving. She married her husband two years after we arrived in Miami together to go to college, and they’re still together. Coincidentally, I met my children’s dad at their wedding. We eat our beans and rice with plantains and suddenly I say, “Do you ever miss Pennsylvania?”
Jessie falls silent, looking into my eyes. “How long has it been since we were there?” she finally says softly
Now it’s my turn to go quiet. “It must be…what…”
“Ten years.” Jessie finishes.
“Ten years.” I echo.
Suddenly I’m overcome by a painful longing for my home town. The pine trees thick with snow. The smell of hot apple cider. Roaring fires. Deer silently picking their way through brush. “I want to go home.” I say softly, like a lost child.
I think about how Christmas is next week. How the sun is warm and bright like Pennsylvania in the summer, but I’ll be going home to my plastic Christmas tree piled with presents.
Jessie says my name and I’m jolted away from my thoughts. She holds up her cell phone and shows me the confirmation for six airplane tickets to Deer’s Crossing, Pennsylvania, our hometown. They leave on Sunday, December 20th, and Jessie says, “They fly back here on December 29th.”
Tears well up in my eyes and I fumble for words. Finally I settle on “Thank you, thank you so much.”
“Don’t thank me. Remember, it’s my home too.”
***
We step off the plane to the tiny airport of my hometown. Jessie and I lead our families to an empty bench and help them get outfitted for the brutal cold of the town. None of them have ever been outside of Miami before. Why would you, when you live in a vacation spot?
Jessie and I giggle at them encased in winter jackets, hats, scarves and gloves. It was their insistence that they keep as warm as possible. Lily suddenly gasps and runs to one of the windows looking out at the tarmac. Snow is swirling outside and it’s the best kind; thick white flakes that muffle the world.
We all watch the snow like Lily does, momentarily brought back to wide-eyed youth. A few passerby throw us amused looks, but for once I don’t care. This is my home, and everyone should appreciate their homes to the best of their abilities.
Jessie and I’s parents each take their own cars, and drive us to their large house. The living room has a roaring fire and the kids drop down on the carpet beside it. Our father sits beside them, showing them pictures he has taken of the winter. Carter is the only one paying attention, and he looks at them in awe.
Our mother comes back with a large sack and Jessie and I look on in interest. Our husbands are busy watching the snow with wonder in their eyes. She claps her hands, drawing everyone’s attention to her. Our father stands up and pours out the contents of the sack. I gasp, a smile filling up my face. They’re two wooden sleds that I recognize as mine and Jessie’s. I rush up to mine, dropping on my knees beside it. I run my fingers along the wood and smile at the word “Silver” painted in white.
It’s a rush of chaos as we put our winter gear back on, but soon all eight of us are marching towards the sledding hill behind our house.
The snow has built up, and is still falling thickly. The pine trees are drooping under the weight. Carter and Lily are losing their minds, giggling and shrieking as they run along, falling and throwing snow at each other. It makes an indescribable sound as we walk along in our boots, and soon we reach the top of the hill.
Jessie and I position ourselves on the sleds and I cry “Hi-ho, Silver, away!” before launching myself down the hill.
It’s the most exhilarating feeling in the world. The snow gathers on my clothes as I hurtle down the hill, gripping the rope like a lifeline. When I slow to a stop, I fall off of the sled, laughing harder than I have in years.
We drag the sleds back up the hill, where Lily and Carter are begging for a turn.
Three years later, Jessie, her husband, and her new toddler move to Deer’s Crossing. Me and my family do too.
But still, every single time my kids go sledding, they always whoop with joy. They always watch the snow.
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