Emma

Emma and I trudge through the snow. That year the snow began in late January and lasted until the middle of March. Winter started late. It wouldn’t let go.  We two sisters walk regardless; our boots fatten cross-country ski tracks.

We don’t talk. 

We don’t need to. 

We trudge.

Eventually, we come to the bridge, our turn-around point.  We’re tired and lay down in the snow.

We don’t talk. 

We don’t need to.

Emma and I were born a year apart. She’s pale with long, dark hair and glasses. She freckles in the sun, but just across the bridge of her nose. They’re pretty, her freckles; it’s as if she strategically placed each one.  I’m taller than Emma, with blonde curls and dimples.

At the moment, these differences are hidden beneath hats and scarves. We watch the snow fall on and around us.  We start as a skier comes upon us,

“Whew, you moved! I was afraid you were dead.”

We laugh and allow him to pass.

Emma joined the army late last year, looking to use her forensic science degree in the criminal investigation department. Right now she sends letters—letters in which she instructs me to read Phantom of the Opera because it’s dark, and also to read the first paragraph of Moby Dick because (in her words), “it makes you swoon every time.”  

In return I send her excerpts I’ve copied by hand from Walden and The Writing Life to supplement the Army’s allowance of just one book. I also inform her that the Barenaked Ladies’ new album is okay, but they’re sorely missing Steven Page.  We’ll listen to the new album when we see each other next and reminisce about “Be My Yoko Ono.”

 The sky darkens as we pull ourselves out of the snow.  

On the trek back we do talk. 

And I don't remember if I remember what we talked about.