Solace

Buried

Buried  placed second in the Literary Fiction contest - "Winter."

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His boy laughs, a sound rich with wonder and excitement. The snow cascades around his smiling face. He reaches down, grabs some more and does it all over again.

It makes him happy, seeing his son like this, but he can't help feeling a little jealous. What did laughter feel like?

Hunter is quadruple wrapped in winter clothing, can barely bend his arms to touch his toes but he's at that perfect age where it doesn't frustrate him, the discomfort of food stuck to his face or an extra thick snowsuit are simply truths of the world he lives in. Ginny would laugh if she saw him, quoting A Christmas Story and would mention something about him being over-protective. Little bits of truth within her playful teasing.

He shivers.

It's hopelessly cold, but they're out in eight inches of snowfall because this is Hunter's first white Christmas. White frames the edges of every line in the trees, gives texture to the rolling hills of Pine and Douglas Fir. The forest envelopes them, trees standing in silent and stoic vigil like guardians surrounding an ancient burial site. It's quiet, beyond the crunch of snow beneath their boots or the gleeful sounds of his child.

Something about how he feels puts him at unease. He never expected to find himself here again. He certainly didn't think he'd ever miss it.

Most of all, he didn't think he'd miss her this much.

"Papa." His son calls, pulling him from his reverie. "Papa?"

Hunter is crouched down in the snow, looking at something in the blanketing cold with an intensity only an archaeologist or child could have.

"Papa, look." He says, pointing to a bike in the snow. "Bike."

"That's right, bike."

It's been smothered by the snow, left to rust and rot from a season long ago. Without thinking, Mark pulls on the handlebars and lifts it from its resting place.

"Come on," he says and takes his son by the hand. "I bet Pap and Gran have some hot cocoa waiting for us."

* * * * *

Christmas morning went by as quick as it had crept up on him. It's his son's second Christmas, so Hunter wasn't at the age of tearing every box open with fevered intensity. Instead he opened one and only moved onto the next when Pap or Gran or Mark pushed one into his hands.

"Open this one," Pap says, a smile spreading on his face. When Hunter doesn't move from his wooden puzzle, Pap pulls on the corner of the wrapping paper. "See? Pull on this."

"He sure likes that puzzle, huh?" Gran asks.

"He sure does." Mark says, raising a sarcastic eyebrow. "I wonder who got it for him?"

His mother betrays a grin at the corner of her mouth. "That might have been me."

"Anyone need anything?" His Dad asks.

"I'll take another cup of coffee."

"Me too."

They sat in silence, his mother awkwardly playing with her hands in her lap. For the third time that week, she opens her mouth to say something and decides against it. Instead, she crouches and helps Hunter, who's abandoned the wrapped present and gone back to the puzzle.

"Cream?" His father asks.

"Just black." Mark responds.

"Since when do you take your coffee black?"