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The next tie white light Outside, every bush and tree, every li is laced with snow, a fairy wonderland I throw on ht inches of powder on the fence rail, and the flakes are still falling
"Snow for Christ theo out to feed Moonlight, then take the dogs for a walk up the back hill to cut a s snow angels
Last Christmas I didn’t have a tree, didn’t celebrate at all Mrs Kelly was dead Ruben was dead Nothing to celebrate, really It was bitter cold, and the frozen ground was as bleak as my soul
Now back in the house, I propwater and craft paper chains from colorful ads in the Ladies’ Ho pieces of thick white yarn, and, since I don’t have a star, I attach one of Mrs Kelly’s wooden angels at the top My project takes most of the day
"Don’t you think the tree looks nice?" I ask E next to the heater stove They tilt their heads back, considering; then E on the back of the davenport, is unimpressed
Last winter, I cried all the time, cried because I missed Mrs Kelly and Ruben, cried for Lawrence and one to nant wo around, not that I was in any shape to help the hibernation, but in spring I woke up Sally Feder, who’d given birth to tith Mrs Kelly e first ain and asked , calm woman with nice hips and utter sureness in her body, so I picked up my bruised heart, stuffed it back into my chest, and went back to work as a ht For three days it snows, a real blizzard, and the only tiht Then at noon today the sun comes out and, like the Count of Monte Cristo, I’o sledding, dogs!" I dress hurriedly, pull on my boots, coat, scarf, and ated tin and struggle through two feet of powder up the back hill
"Hi-ho, world!" I shout "I’m raised from the dead!" I shout some more "Hi-ho Hi-ho!" There’s an echo, and I’m just happy to hear a human voice, even if it is ain The dogs leap up on me and thenin the deep white
The first trip down the slope is awfully slow as I pack the run
The next jaunt is better
The third ride is really fun I stand grinning at the top of the rise, panting fro, my knit tam half off
The fourth excursion is slick as slime