I am a California native in the Northeast. It's my first week in the season that I've been told I won’t survive, and I am bundled in clothes—a scratchy scarf, two pairs of pants, a big blueberry parka and a knit hat—all newly purchased. The sun has just risen and crisp air burns my nose. A fresh coat of snow sits heavily on the limbs of trees.
Having forgotten to account for the time it takes to layer, I’m running late to class. I glance anxiously at my watch and hurry through the blanketed streets. Out of breath, I arrive finally at the top of Foss Hill, the steep, icy slope that stands exactly between me and the classroom I’m supposed to be in two minutes from now.
I lean over the edge to scout my path. After yesterday’s storm the day prior, Foss Hill has been sledded and skied down a great deal. Overuse has scraped any layer of powder clean off, leaving only a frictionless, glistened plane thinned by sunlight. Small outcrops of rock and grass puncture through its marble-like surface, and the whole sheet has been darkened to a murky black-grey. To my left, a paved, well-trodden path winds its way lazily down the incline, doubling back on itself in long, patient curves.
But I hate being late, and straight down is the fastest way. Thinking of Robert Frost, I quickly convince myself that descending Foss will not only get me to Intermediate Spanish on time, but will prove me a true maverick—what was once a choice against all reason becomes one of authenticity, and perhaps even courage.
I take one precarious step forward. It looks worse than it is, I tell myself.
In an instant I find myself skimming rapidly downwards on my butt, my bald-treaded boots flying through the air, limbs flailing. Rows of pine trees and red-brick spires fly past in my periphery.
At the bottom, I’m flushed and shaken. Chill seeps through the pockets of my jeans. I close my mouth, which must have fallen open at some point along the way, and wince as small bruises form constellations across my tailbone.
I look again at my watch. My class has begun. But the urgency that led to my fall seems to have been lost somewhere in it, and in a moment of catharsis and humiliation I lie back against the hill, laughing awkwardly to myself, not knowing whether to bow or apologize or forget going to class at all.
The world narrows suddenly to the question of whether I’d been seen. I swivel my head. The campus is nearly empty, aside from a stranger wearing a backpack and a hefty red coat. He stands, eyeing me, surrounded by snow like a dot of blood or cranberry juice on white carpet.
“You good?”
“Yes,” I reply. “Thanks.”
He nods, burying his nose into his scarf and resuming the trudge forward. I lift myself up by my palms and follow him as whatever spectacle I thought I’d made dissolves into the cold.
Sole Magazine