Apple Cider

Ever since we moved into the parsonage next door to the church nine years ago, I have noticed that the snow seems to fall in a pattern. Every third winter the snow falls more. It falls with more intensity and aggression like it's taking out its pent-up anger on the people down below. This past winter happened to be the third one. I watched from the bathroom window each morning while I got ready for work as the snow fell endlessly. It was a treacherous drive to work, luckily just a few blocks away. The church's tin roof next door made for a perfect slide for the snow, allowing it to slip right into our yard, piling up until the edge of the roof touched the tall mounds of icicle-filled snow hills. The girls loved to play on them together once the storms calmed down, pretending they were wintery warrior princesses. The mounds of snow were tall enough to sled down, so we gave the girls two dumpster lids to use as makeshift sleds. They especially loved to resurrect Mr. Snowball each year – forming a ball of snow in their small hands and giving it eyes and a mouth made from lilac buds – and take him with them on their snowy adventures. When winter came to an end and he began to melt, they would say goodbye and look forward to seeing him again in ten months. I tried to savor those precious moments, as they always came and went so fast. I knew that the year would come that they would forget about Mr. Snowball, and he would never be made, and he would never melt. I knew that their sweet and innocent goodbyes would fade away, and so I cherished each one.

One cold Saturday evening, Penny tugged at my knitted turtleneck sweater and begged me to drive her to the City Market down the hill as I finished up the dishes. She wanted me to buy a box of apple cider mix for her after she and Avrey had come inside from playing in the snow. She's loved that stuff for years. They took the bread bags off their feet that had kept their socks dry, placed their gloves and snow boots on the floor vent heaters, and hung everything else up on the hooks that were placed halfway down the wall at a height they could both reach. Their dirty blonde hair was wet from the snow, and their cheeks and noses were still rosy, a contrast to their fair skin. Avrey ran to the living room to sit in front of the fireplace as her dad watched Star Trek on the couch with baby Isaac.

"Mom! Are you listening to me?" Penny paced around the kitchen, sliding her socks around on the green and white tile, going halfway into the splits with each stride.

"Yes honey, sorry." I closed the dishwasher, pressed the normal cycle button, and listened to the roar of the water flooding over the dishes inside. Outside the kitchen window, I could see the next snowstorm was overhead, the snow falling faster and heavier as each minute passed. I didn't want to be worrying about my daughter in the midst of that.

"I think you ought to stay home. You were just out there playing, I think it's time to take a break. Go sit on the couch with your dad."

"Mom! That's not fair. I never get to do anything fun." She crossed her arms, stomping off to the living room. I didn't understand why she wanted to come so badly. I was only gone for 10 minutes.

I pulled into our parking spot with the box of spiced apple cider in the passenger seat. The sun was going down fast and the snowstorm was at full force now, pelting the ground with snowballs. The wind blew especially hard, creating a blizzard as it got more and more intense. The cloud cover was thick, blocking out most of any light that was left. Even still, I could tell that the large Jeffrey pine tree that was normally standing tall in the center of our yard was no longer there. I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me. How could a tree just disappear? I parked the car, grabbed the box, jumped out, and ran towards the yard as fast as I could, slipping backward on the ice that coated the eight-space parking lot as my outgrown head of hair whipped around my face. My tailbone would be bruised for weeks, but that was the least of our worries.