High grass in the middle of winter. Perhaps there is some truth to global warming after all. Two weeks ago, I celebrated a white Christmas with my closest friends and now I don shorts to push a lawn mower around my house. As I turn around the back of the house, I stop short. Since the last time I mowed the grass, in September, something changed.
At the base of a large oak tree, a hole large enough for me to mow my way through gapes open between the roots. I stop the mower and slowly approach the hole. It doesn’t disappear , so I peer into it. I can’t see anything, so I lean in, holding onto the tree trunk.
“That’s odd.”
Nestled among the tree’s twisted roots, my bedroom in my parents’ old house begs me to step through the hole. My desk, which succumbed to water damage many moves ago, holds a familiar array of college acceptance letters. On top of the pile, the one closest to home already bears my signature. The rest would end up in the trash by the end of the week though a college in the Midwest offered the most comprehensive scholarships.
I step forward, expecting to snap out of the memory any moment now. As I draw closer to the desk, the papers flutter. I reach for the top one, surprised to feel it in my hand. Looking down at it, I wonder for the millionth time, “what if?”
I shuffle through the acceptance letters and move Midwestern Professional University to the top. I roll my eyes at myself. Changing a memory has no effect on my life. I turn back toward the hole and climb back out into the sunshine.
—
Light bounces off of glittering blankets of snow. Blinded, I don’t see the snowball until it bounces off my face. As I hold back tears and confusion, the world around me makes sense. And the handsome midwestern bear of a man kissing me better between apologies doesn’t get slapped. After all, he has been my husband since shortly after we graduated from Midwestern Professional College. As he kisses me again, I look down to see two little girls ministering to my bruised face by hugging and kissing my snow pants clad legs.
My phone rings to announce my mom calling for our weekly chat. I put her on speaker.
“Honey, you are going to totally regret not moving back home. It is 75 degrees. In January. Your father is outside showing off his pasty legs in shorts while he mows the lawn.”
“I dunno, mom. I am pretty happy here, but we miss you and dad.”
“Bring those kiddos home to see grandma soon. We’ll save some sun for them.”
~~~
When I wrote this in November, how did I know this crazy weather would be making me question what season I am in on a regular basis. Sorry this offering is so late, but it has arrived, so no pitchforks, please.
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