One frozen blue evening, we took rides on a horse-drawn sleigh. A man came to the house and gathered us by the load, our laughter the only sound for miles. Looking up through the warmth of a scarf that covered everything but my eyes, I saw a sky that bloomed velvet flowers. Back and forth, the man took us along Route 31A, while those not in the sleigh clamored by the open door, our hot breath gunning fog as we begged for another run.
The sleigh was decked in bells with holly boughs tied to its side. Or perhaps the driver just seemed festive. He liked my mother. Or owed her something. It all ended, however, when his horses and sleigh ran off the road into an icy ditch. My mother was harsh to him then. She shut us up inside, left him out in the cold.
“He’s drunk,” she said, an unusual air of judgment darkening her voice.
“Therese—Therese, Therese,” the sleigh driver called, “I can get her up and running again—I can, I can.”
Pound. Pound. Pounding on the door.
“Therese, Therese. …” he called after her from the frozen side of the door, joined with us at not wanting the fun to end. But she just stood there, silent. She would not look at us. She would not be swayed.