I find the sled at the back of the shed. Red rails, wooden slats, a leash of weathered jute. It sings to me, begs me to take it out into the snow. When I pull it free of the cobwebs, it looks barely used.
That was yours once, Dad says. I stare at it, appalled at my lack of recollection. Mother is appalled as well, for different reasons. You’re too big for sleds. That thing is dangerous. Your dad used to pull you around on it, but you fell off once.
I don’t remember. It sounds precious and exciting, moments I should have cherished forever. What other memories have I lost in my twelve years? Can I get this memory back if I ride the sled? The wanting of the sled and its hidden memories clog my throat.
No one is sledding on the hill nearest to my house. It’s frequented by younger kids, and the afternoon is growing dim and frigid. Kids my age are sledding far away down, a steep street. My mother always says no to street sledding.
Rumor has it that a kid got run over careening out into traffic. Or almost got run over. Or thought that they might have got run over, had things happened just wrong. Whichever, it was enough for my mother to declare a permanent ban on Warren Street hill and its thrill-seeking crowd.
No matter. On this hill, I am queen of my own solitary domain. I slide down slowly at first, the steering mechanism stiff and icy under my mittens. I try to imagine my dad pulling me along while I sit, dainty lady style. Nothing. Snow flies in into my face as I get braver.
Thoughts of memory retrieval abandoned, I push the sled harder and faster. I am an Iditarod musher. I am a sled dog, loyally trudging uphill, pulling sled and master. I am a spaceship, hurtling through the starry white void. I lay on the sled and pretend it’s a luge and I am an Olympian. Maybe this is the thing I can finally be good enough at.
Whatchagot there?
Reality snaps back in focus as a neighbor kid appears. He looks at the red rails and snorts. A baby sled, old-fashioned and obsolete. He considers it again, tries it out and then hands it back with regret.
His plastic toboggan can’t compete. We race. It is not a fair contest. My sled is powered by magic and memories. But the blades hiss their secrets in a language I can’t quite comprehend. Nevertheless, I win.
I had a sled like that once, the neighbor kid brags. I’ll find it and then we’ll see who wins the race! He’ll show up next Saturday with his round plastic toboggan glued together with construction glue. For a few snowy weeks, I am the envy of the sledding neighborhood with my fast, old-fashioned sled.
Even so, I cherish the days when I have the hill all to myself the most. Company is fine, but solitude allows me to perfect my new craft. My dad suggests that I wax the runners, advice I would take if we had any wax.
At home, the gas-warmed air of the house feels unbearably hot, like a slap on both cheeks. Mother fusses and makes me leave all my sodden things in the laundry room. I hope you have that out of your system. She clucks and sends me off for a warm bath.
I will sled every day until there is no more snow. I promise myself that I will keep the sled forever. It is a vow destined to be broken. The sled will go to a new owner.
I will keep the hazy memories, pretending to remember more now than I did then.