Hilltop

The sky is dreary today. No discernable clouds, the whole sky is just a blanket of grey. I can see past the branches in the trees above me, the edge of the forest directly in my eyeline. It’s cold today. I thought today was the coldest day of the year so far but apparently it’s not. I can’t hear much of anything past the breeze and the waving branches above. There’s a muffled sloshing I think I can attribute to tilting my head too much in the shower. But I can still hear the breeze. There’s some laughter or maybe shouting in the distance, but it all blends.

I remember a time long ago, I was laying in the grass and staring at the sky. It’s the closest sense of serene inflection I can compare to this moment. The grass was warm and I could smell the lingering mow clippings. I usually worry about the insects who made their home in the dirt crawling up onto me when I’m laying on the ground. There’s a passing nervousness of something flying above and dropping it’s waste onto me. But then, on that day, just like today, I don’t worry.

I can feel the sweat on my body. My coat and scarf are cinched tight, I’m wearing thermal underclothing, and my hat, which typically protects my ears and forehead, is hanging half off my head. My back is cold, almost freezing. My nose is running and my eyes have been watering, but I can’t wipe anything up, I’m trying not to move too much. I dare not disturb this moment.

The branches above me look scary. They are crooked and bare, thrashing violently in waves from the strong winds above. Twigs and chips fall around me, but, luckily, none have landed on me. I wonder how tall these trees are. The forest sits on a hill, coming down to steeply meet against the pond. The trees soar so high and branch so far over the water.

The sky is undulating. “God must be stirring the clouds.” That’s what my grandma used to tell me during storms. I usually notice during day storms the varying cloud structures and colors drifting by, but today, it’s a solid layer of movement with just varying shades of grey. I haven’t seen a single snowflake or ice cube come down around me. There’s no rain. It would be raining, I think. I realize now it’s not cold enough to snow.

I move my eyes, trying not to move my head. I came with someone today. I wonder where they are. I think I hear their voice but it’s so faint. His voice is overpowered by the breeze flowing and the branches crashing above and the crackling below me, but I hear him still. I can’t make out the words.

Just moments ago we were running through the forest, looking for trees to hide behind, ducking from dirty snowballs. I dressed for the coldness today, but we found ourselves sweating during the game. I was muddier than I was wet from melted snow. The forest floor has a layer of old snow, but you can definitely see the mud peeking through. Each grasp for snowball ammunition digs up mud, but there’s still enough snow to explode on impact.

I was running from the vengeance of my last mostly-mud snowball. I dodged a few hits that surely would’ve hit hard. But I’ve always been more nimble than my older brother. He hit trees more often than he hit me, as usual. I head toward the edge of the tree line, the steep drop on the hillside to the frozen pond appearing more like a cliff.

A snowball flies past my head, so close I just duck out of instinct. My legs buckle in my speed. I try to catch myself but slip in a patch of mud. I tried to turn my fall into a roll so I wouldn’t land on an arm or something, but I caught it anyway. I feel my left arm twist back as I roll onto my shoulder. The hill is littered with fallen branches and stones. I keep trying to catch myself, but my hands volley against boulders. Finally, I feel my neck snap back on a sharp stone.

The bottom of this hill is still iced. I see the flat frozen surface of the pond and feel relieved that this 3 second fall, which felt like five minutes, is over. I land on the ice with an audible thud, it takes my breath away, and I slide about ten feet on the ice. I hear it cracking along the way.

“Don’t move!” I hear my brother yell out to me. I lay still as the ice around me starts shifting. I couldn’t move if I wanted to, nothing seems to be happening as I move to sit up or roll over to crawl back. I can hear the water behind my head under the ice moving. It must have been warmer than I thought. Drops of water fall from the trees as I watch birds take flight from the branches.

The sky was dreary today. It seems darker than it was earlier. I hear indiscernible shouts from my brother at the edge of the pond. I focus on the breeze above, the crackling branches, and the ice snapping below me. Cold water seeps up through the cracks in the ice and the slab I lay on undulates beneath me. I can’t move my hands but can feel warmth on them. I can’t move my head, but I feel water sloshing into my ears.

And all I hear is the cracking ice.