White

White                                 4-8-2013

By John W. Vander Velden

A late night, returning from relatives, I sat in the back seat of our ’54 Dodge Coronet.  The winter intense, the heavy snow fell.  Great fluffy white flakes danced across the windshield, all I could see.  My father, with firm grip on the wheel, stared intently ahead.  How he could see anything beyond the floating whiteness, I could not imagine.  The drive took much longer than usual, surely a sign of his caution as wipers flailed and puffs of white blinded.  The ride quiet, unusual, unnatural, none dared to speak, each staring out the windshield and seeing nothing…nothing but white.  I had lost track of the turns made, the lefts, the rights, lost track of how the journey was proceeding, how far we had come, how far we had yet to go, mesmerized by the white, taunting, swirling, that hid the world beyond. 

The Dodge turned suddenly, to the right with a thump, its nose rising, the car slanting as it came to an unexpected stop.  The front doors swung open, pushing the deep powder aside.  Mom quickly climbed out.  My youngest sister wrapped in a blanket in her arms. Dad dashed around taking the rest, a small caravan by the hands.   Cold wind blew the white flakes that bit at cheek and blinded my eyes.  Frightened, I trudged lost, only my father’s hand leading through knee deep snow.  Suddenly steps…familiar stairs, a known door opened and we entered our own home, leaving the cold, the snow, the white, behind.

(251 Words)