Home: Part 3

What follows is a work of fiction. Nothing here is either true or relevant. Read at your own risk. Do not expect anything, and that's exactly what you'll get. Oh: This could go on for awhile.

January 1958 

My mother's voice: "Steven."

Even from under the blankets I could tell it was cold outside, and dark. My parents were frugal, and even in winter they often kept the heat low at night. They believed that an extra comforter was just as effective as running the heater. One night, though, when my mother was gone, I found my father in a chair in the kitchen, the oven door open and the heating element glowing hot. He looked at me. "Go back to bed. Don't tell your mother." He smiled, and I was grateful for the secret.

"Steven."

"I'm awake, Mom."

"Your father and I are leaving now. Remember to take Tiger for a walk. We'll be home for dinner."

"Okay."

 She shut my bedroom door, and I listened as they left the house, as my father started the car and backed out of the driveway. I lay there and let myself fall back asleep until the gap between dawn and morning narrowed to a point that kept me awake. Breathing into my hands, I warmed my fingers enough so that when I got ready to stand up, I could strap my left leg on without missing a buckle. I stood slowly, a lifetime habit, to be sure I wouldn't topple over if one of the buckles was too loose. Dressed, I left my bedroom and walked down the hallway toward the kitchen. "Tiger," I yelled. "Let's go walk in the snow."