A memory from when I was 10 years old.
As I walked toward the property line I crested the top of the hill and looked back.
I could see our house behind me, large and yellow, old and brick, cozy and warm. I kept going. In front of me the hill sloped downwards toward the forest at the edge of our farm.
Sherwood Forest was what we called it in the summertime. We pretended our dog was the Sherrif of Nottingham while we were Robin Hood’s merry men.
But this was winter and everything was crusted in smooth white drifts. I trudged through the snow until I was in that hollow space between the slope of the hill and the height of the trees and I laid down, sinking into the snow.
Silent clouds passed by overhead. The sun shone bright and warm. I was insulated in my snowsuit and mitts, buried in my little cocoon of snow. It was perfect.