Snow Reverie
11/14/13 10:01
I remember the time I was throwing snowballs at the street
I was aiming for cars
but only because I knew I'd never hit them.
Poor aim, weak arms, no practice,
I couldn't hit a bus at a stop light
Let alone a car going 40
Through the narrow window between the pine trees in front of my house.
But it was better than being inside.
Outside, in the cold, at the entrance to the slender tunnel-like igloo
I had excavated from the mound of snow shoveled off the driveway
chided by my brother for its total unsuitability as a snow fort.
It didn't matter to me, because I would lose any snow fight anyways.
So I had constructed this tunnel,
Impervious to my brother's perfectly arced shots,
Thrown with the weight of years of little league practice,
Straight at my head.
I stood at the entrance,
Solitary in my thoughts,
Armored in my child-size snow suit,
Packing wet snow together and hurling it without thought.
And shocked, totally shocked,
As I watched the snowball explode wetly
On a car's windshield.
As the car ground to a halt I disappeared, gopher-like, down my hole
Turning and peeking out, needing to know
But not wanting to be seen,
As what I now think of as a young man
Leapt out of the driver's seat and started bellowing.
Terror brought me out,
Saying sorry, swearing up and down that I was aiming for a branch.
That I'd never meant to hit the car.
The lie was new minted, not yet solid, and he had none of it.
His girlfriend or wife, getting out of the car, trying to calm him down
Telling him I'm just a kid, as he ignored her
And yelled at me to run inside and not come out again.
I ran, not inside but to the back of the house
The car drove off and I went in.
My mom saw the latter half of the exchange,
And wanted to know what happened.
I told her I'd aimed for the branch but hit the car,
Lied to her as I had lied to him,
Lied to myself.
Told myself the story until I could see it,
See the drooping snow-laden branch
That I had missed by a mile
Because I never hit anything I aimed for.
Because I knew that I had to believe it,
Or others might not, and I'd be caught.
Not yet in middle school, and already a method actor in training,
Believing it so hard that even now, writing this story,
I wanted to say that I had aimed for the branch, and not the car.
But I never forgot.
And I don't remember ever really throwing snowballs again.
Shame lingers in crisp detail
That fond remembrance can never match.
I was aiming for cars
but only because I knew I'd never hit them.
Poor aim, weak arms, no practice,
I couldn't hit a bus at a stop light
Let alone a car going 40
Through the narrow window between the pine trees in front of my house.
But it was better than being inside.
Outside, in the cold, at the entrance to the slender tunnel-like igloo
I had excavated from the mound of snow shoveled off the driveway
chided by my brother for its total unsuitability as a snow fort.
It didn't matter to me, because I would lose any snow fight anyways.
So I had constructed this tunnel,
Impervious to my brother's perfectly arced shots,
Thrown with the weight of years of little league practice,
Straight at my head.
I stood at the entrance,
Solitary in my thoughts,
Armored in my child-size snow suit,
Packing wet snow together and hurling it without thought.
And shocked, totally shocked,
As I watched the snowball explode wetly
On a car's windshield.
As the car ground to a halt I disappeared, gopher-like, down my hole
Turning and peeking out, needing to know
But not wanting to be seen,
As what I now think of as a young man
Leapt out of the driver's seat and started bellowing.
Terror brought me out,
Saying sorry, swearing up and down that I was aiming for a branch.
That I'd never meant to hit the car.
The lie was new minted, not yet solid, and he had none of it.
His girlfriend or wife, getting out of the car, trying to calm him down
Telling him I'm just a kid, as he ignored her
And yelled at me to run inside and not come out again.
I ran, not inside but to the back of the house
The car drove off and I went in.
My mom saw the latter half of the exchange,
And wanted to know what happened.
I told her I'd aimed for the branch but hit the car,
Lied to her as I had lied to him,
Lied to myself.
Told myself the story until I could see it,
See the drooping snow-laden branch
That I had missed by a mile
Because I never hit anything I aimed for.
Because I knew that I had to believe it,
Or others might not, and I'd be caught.
Not yet in middle school, and already a method actor in training,
Believing it so hard that even now, writing this story,
I wanted to say that I had aimed for the branch, and not the car.
But I never forgot.
And I don't remember ever really throwing snowballs again.
Shame lingers in crisp detail
That fond remembrance can never match.