May B. (19 page)

      He’s still out here.

      Was he separated from his pack?

      Is he the weak one?

      Has he eaten since the storm?

      I secure the pillowcase

      within the bodice of the red dress.

      The quilt’s folded over my coat,

      wrapped from shoulders to elbows,

      my threadbare armor.

      I grip the broom handle in both hands,

      ready.

      The sun is higher now in the eastern sky.

      A horse and a sleigh

      have been through recently.

      I’m unsure where these tracks came from

      or where they lead,

      but I can tell someone’s traveled in two directions,

      has doubled back.

      I stay with the sleigh tracks

      until they turn north,

      away from home.

      I could follow,

      try to catch up,

      but I won’t.

      I’m going home.

      It’s dangerous,

      but it’s what I’ve chosen,

      and I gather strength from knowing this.

      I lift each boot

      just to plunge it deep into the snow again,

      a high-step march that hardly travels forward.

      The broom handle is my cane.

      My forehead burns.

      My chemise, drenched with sweat,

      is a frigid layer against my skin.

      And no matter how much snow I suck,

      my stomach isn’t tricked.

      Wolf,

      show your face.

      This would be an easy fight

      for you.

      When the sun is behind me,

      I rest for a bit.

      The quilt is both my shawl and cushion.

      Even though I’ve traveled since just after daybreak,

      I feel no closer

      to my home.

      And I can’t possibly know

      exactly where home is.

      The quilt is soaked through,

      but I’m not yet ready to start again.

      The western horizon, both blue and white,

      is so bright it’s hard to look at long.

      The only tracks I see are my own.

      I rock for warmth,

      pulling the quilt about me like a hood.

      What if this is the end?

      What if I’ve fought my way from that prison for nothing,

      just to die out here?

      Tears freeze to my eyelashes

      as I stumble to my feet,

      which are weighty as sacks of flour.

      My legs are wet

      from stockings to bloomers.

      My shadow extends long before me.

      If I’m not home soon,

      I will not last the night.

      Finally I turn,

      face the western sky,

      and watch the sun sink

      lower,

      lower.

      It is gone.

      I must move while there’s still light.

      I stamp my feet to rouse them.

      Pain shoots through my toes,

      a promise I’m still living.

      I trudge toward the purple darkness

      and turn sometimes to see if the sunlight

      has taken pity on me,

      if it might wait to see me home.

      But it is well beyond that imaginary place

      where the sky meets land—

      the only light just a memory of this day.

      Do I see or hear it first,

      the shadow where the sun

      once was,

      distant bells,

      the unsure step of a horse’s hooves

      battling the snow?

      Someone is there!

      I’m certain now.

      I try to run,

      trip on Mrs. Oblinger’s quilt,

      crash to the ground,

      but I am up again.

      “Hello! Hello!”

      My voice is firm, like I’ve used it every day.

      I flap my arms,

      and the quilt unfurls.