Monster hill

 A gentle snowfall blankets the ground as you sleep. As you wake up, your eyes are blinded as you look outside at a blank slate ready to entertain children of all ages. You pull on layers of clothing, skipping the buttons moms fasten right before sending you out into the crisp air and virgin snow. Garage doors open as sleds and saucers are pulled from months of disuse and hauled to the hills to be challenged again. You arrive as other kids join in the run to be first down the hill as the smaller kids give way to teenagers on a mission. It's an unwritten law that the smaller hill belongs to the little kids, and anyone older will be warned to stay away. For the little ones, the smaller hill is challenging enough: they make it to the top, sit on their sleds, and push off, gaining speed as they go. They jump for joy, yelling to the older siblings about their success, but the older kids have had only one thing on their minds: to be flying down the untouched snow.

The day wore on, and countless runs striped the hills as blades and runners rained on the once-snowy surface, now just a mix of dirt and snow. Soon the kids left the hills and pulled their sleds to the next hill their parents forbade them to go to, but they knew darn well they would anyway. It was known as the monster hill, and for good reason, as you could see it in the distance, reaching into the clouds, or so it seemed. The little kids could only watch; that was fine by them, as fear gripped them at the thought of sledding down at breakneck speeds. Up on top of the giant hill, a few teenagers sat on their sleds, looking down at the little kids who seemed no bigger than a swarm of ants. Then one by one they shoved off and began the death-defying plunge down the hill. The cold turned their eyebrows to ice, and their heartbeats were almost audible as they passed the little kids cheering them on. Then the unthinkable happened: one of the teens lost control and fell off his sled, tumbling down the hill at breakneck speed, and stopped when he rolled into the field, where bushes softened the landing. It became very quiet as everyone waited to see if he was dead, but he got up and waved, saying he was okay and ready to go again.
Years later, when I visited home, I prayed for a good snowfall, and my prayers were answered: on my first night home, a massive storm blew in, covering everything with the blanket needed to challenge the monster hill. My wife said I was crazy, and my kids begged to go but settled for the little hill. I got my old sled from the garage and began the long walk, each step a chance to turn back. I reached the top and sat on my sled as a couple of teens laughed at the older man who just signed his own death certificate. Then, with one little push, I was gaining speed until I felt my cheeks fluttering and my eyelids icing up to the point of blindness, but I wouldn't abort and kept going, speeding past the teens to the bottom where I was greeted by my wife and kids, happy to see me in one piece. The teens came up to me, all saying one word: respect. My kids thought of me as their hero, and my wife said she'd file for divorce if I ever did that again. I never did go down the hill again, but I watched as kids, including my own, faced the challenge of Monster Hill that only those who've experienced it could live to tell.

                                                                               

Mike  2026
Mike  2026