Thick Coat

It was one of those days after a fresh show where the sky is a deep blue and the sun is so bright that the reflection off the snow is blinding. From inside of our apartment, the brilliant sun gave a deceptive appearance of warmth, but being experienced in such matters, I knew that it was bitterly cold outside.

I hurried to put on my pants and jacket and struggled to pull on my boots. At such a young age, I was not certain of many things. This day, however, I was certain was perfect for sledding. I grabbed my mittens from off of the table as my sister grabbed our sled. As I stepped through the door into the bitter cold outside, I was glad I had put on my heavier coat. In an excited rush, we dashed down the street and up our favorite sledding hill.

The hill was already bustling with activity. Dogs were running, wrestling, and rolling around. Parents were chatting with morning coffee or cocoa as they watched their excited children gleefully make their way down the hill on their disk sled, or toboggan, or cardboard box. They watched their same children, who moments ago had faces of joy, tiredly make their way back up the hill, dragging their transportation behind them.

My sister, being older, took her turn first. I watched with anticipation as she made her way down the hill. While she seemed to fly downhill, she seemed to crawl uphill. Attempting to minimize the delay, I ran to meet her before she reached the crest of the hill. With a wide grin, I took our sled from her and ran back to the top of the hill as fast as I could. It was my turn.

I checked my equipment. My boots were tied nice and tight, though not too tight. Each button of my heavy, thick coat was secured. My hat was tied snugly underneath my chin. My mittens were fastened around my hands and tucked under the sleeves of my coat.

Holding my bright orange sled by the yellow plastic handles, I set my legs in motion and quickly reached optimum speed. In one masterful motion, I leaped into the air, brought the sled beneath me, and landed expertly on my behind. Crossing my legs for the best possible aerodynamic positioning, I tightened my grip on the bright yellow handles, leaned forward, and started my journey down the slope.

Suddenly, my back felt wet. I turned to look over my right shoulder as the sled continued to take me down the hill. My sister was franticly running down the hill after me. A parent held tightly to the dog that had attacked me. Bewildered, I looked at my shoulder. The cotton visible through the tear in my thick coat had turned a deep crimson. I was overtaken by a sense of nausea and a deep, biting cold. I fell off the sled, which continued empty down the hill while my limp body coasted a short distance before coming to a stop in a motionless heap near the middle of the hill.

A flurry of activity ensued. I could see the tears in my sister’s eyes as she knelt helplessly by my side. A parent hovered over me, struggling to unfasten the buttons of my heavy coat. Another parent ran to a nearby house to recover bandages, while still another headed to our apartment to retrieve my mother. As my thick coat was successfully removed, the tears in my sister’s eyes intensified. I cocked my head to see two puncture wounds on the back of my right shoulder. From each wound flowed the same deep crimson blood that stained the inside of my jacket, my shirt, and the snow beneath me.

The bandages arrived and, after a quick wash of what felt like acid, were pressed against the wounds and the bleeding was under control. My mother arrived on the scene with a look of terror that was quickly quelled by reassurances from a neighbor. The tears from my sister’s eyes subsided, as did the commotion on the hill as everyone breathed a collective sigh of relief.

My mother took me in her arms. With my sister close behind, my mother carried me to the car and drove to the emergency room. The wounds required fourteen stitches, which I wore as a badge of honor for the next few days. The doctor said it would have been worse had I not been wearing such a thick coat.