Carry You with Me

Delicate flecks of white hung motionless in the air, suspended in time. Reed watched as the icy clumps floated toward the ground, touching down on a soft, thick bed of snow. His nervous mother, always tuned into the morning news, said that it would flurry like this until midafternoon, bringing over a foot of fresh powder—perfect for Reed’s sledding trip with his dad.

The car was warm and rumbling. Reed tried to relax the stubborn muscles in his jaw as his dad finished loading the trunk.

After a few minutes of waiting, the driver’s door flew open and a rush of cold air burst into the car. Reed’s father, Michael, kicked his boots before stepping in and turning up the heater. Badger, the undersized Labrador retriever named for his stubborn playfulness and bad digging habit, greeted Michael with a flurry of licks and tail wags. He patted Badger and shooed the excited animal to the back seat.

“You ready, son?” Michael asked.

“Yeah,” said Reed.

“Plenty of layers on?”

“Yep.”

“Good. We’re going to a new place this time.” Michael flashed a smile before backing out of the driveway and heading down the road, gently fishtailing on the slush as they drove along. Fat snowflakes fell and dotted the windshield, melting halfway before being shoved aside by the wiper blades.

The two sat wordless. Only Badger’s panting, the heat blaring, and the biting of chains into the cold, snow-packed road could be heard. It had been several years since they last went sledding together—the last time his dad was around for the winter months. This time was different, though. Reed wanted to say something—no, he had to say something—but he didn’t know what he could say.

As the car churned uphill, Badger paced across the back seat. They climbed higher, and the sun shone brighter through the clouds, giving the sky a mild amber glow. Reed felt his nerves half-melt away like the snowflakes on the windshield—he’d talk to his dad when they got there.

Before long the car came to a sliding halt. Reed looked around but saw no sign of any hills, only a neglected marker pointing to a trailhead.

“Make sure you’ve got your hat and gloves, it’s a bit of a walk.” Michael shoved the keys into his front pocket and zipped it shut. The cold leeched through the car windows and into Reed’s skin, so he put up his hood before stepping outside.

By the time Reed pulled on his gloves and straightened his beanie, his dad had removed the sleds from the trunk and pulled them toward the opening in the trees. Badger raced around, burying his face in the snow and popping out half-white. The ecstatic dog lifted his leg to a nearby tree, leaving a trail of steam and yellow snow behind him.

“This way,” said Michael, dragging the sleds into the cover of the frosted trees. Reed followed him into the silvery enclave. Though it was completely covered, the path shimmered and snow continued to fall. Flashes of soft sunlight leaped off the snowflakes as they fell, illuminating trees, shrubs, and the lightly-trodden path.

The wet snow compacted with a crunch on every step, which made the hike difficult for Reed. A bead of sweat trickled down his neck as they worked their way up the winding path, further into the obscurity of the trees. The frozen branches reached out like skeleton fingers overhead, and Reed’s eyelids fluttered to keep the intrusive snowflakes at bay. Badger bounded between trees, knocking into Reed’s knees more than a few times, threatening to topple him at least once. The further they traveled, the less Reed shared the dog’s excitement—still not a good time to talk to his father.

After what seemed like a mile or more, the trees gave way to a wide and slightly inclined opening of a windswept clearing. Clouds parted above, allowing the midafternoon sun to shine down with full force. The light precipitation slowed to a stop.

Reed trudged along, the gap between him and his father growing. Melted snow soaked through his beanie, and his overheated neck began to itch. Michael turned and noticed his son’s discomfort.

“It’s not much further,” he said as they walked along, giving the sleds a gentle tug as he turned back toward the path.

Reed fell further behind as it became more difficult to keep up. He stumbled nearly every step, and his heavy breathing shot tiny, disorienting crystals through the air in front of him. Yanking on the collar of his sweatshirt, he looked up to find his dad now turned and walking back toward him.

“Get in,” Michael said, gesturing toward the sled. Reed’s eyes opened wide, the heat pouring from his winter coat going unnoticed for a moment. In a hurry, Reed upended the vessel to clear off the snow and sat down. Badger joined him, burrowing beneath his arms and panting wildly. Reed and his father laughed. For a moment, Reed forgot that his dad would be gone again soon, deployed for another 16 months.

He does it because he loves you, Reed’s mom would say as he cried and cried. Watching his dad put on his uniform and pack up didn’t feel like love. Dropping him off at the base didn’t feel like love. Being alone and without a father for months and months at a time didn’t feel like love.

But in this moment, Reed felt something. His dad slogging uphill through the slush for an afternoon of sledding, Reed and Badger in tow—that felt like love. Not doing what he had to do, but what he wanted to do out of love. How could Reed not have seen it?

Michael pulled onward, Badger yipping as he walked. Not long after, the ground beneath the sled flattened out to reveal a ridge with a steep dip on the opposite side. A beautiful white quilt stretched unending before them. It was the highest sledding hill that Reed had ever seen, and there was not another person in sight. Michael walked Reed and Badger to the edge, sat behind them, and pushed off.

The frigid wind bit their cheeks, and snow sprayed in the air as they cut down the hillside. Reed held tightly onto badger, and Michael tightly onto Reed. They sped downhill until, unable to control the skid, they flipped over and landed in a jumble beneath the sled. Badger nosed his way out and barked. Again.

Reed and Michael laughed, still huddled together in the snow. They stood and dusted off. Michael flipped over the sled and motioned for his son to get in. Badger buried himself in Reed’s arms, and Michael pulled.

“I’m gonna miss you, dad,” said Reed. Wind rattled the trees in the distance, and Badger’s tail beat against the plastic sled. Michael stopped and turned, a wide grin across his face. It was clear that he had been waiting for the right moment to tell his son.

“I’m not leaving again,” he said, and he pulled Reed up the hill.