Sleden ("The Sleigh")

I haven't taken the old sled out from the attic for five years. Too many memories I've been trying to suppress - the way dad used to tie our scarves, pull our hats just perfectly over our heads. Too many nightmares my little sister has had - the way dad looked when his body landed again at last, his limbs thrown haphazardly in every direction.

Life still flickered over his face. It was an image enough to fill up your heart with warmth - and then tear it apart. It took me too long to tear Halley away from the sight. Back into reality. Back into my arms. I know some brothers sometimes think their sisters are the most annoying human in the entire world. But we still care. And Halley crying hurt me, too.

We couldn't run away from the snow, really. It wasn't our fault we were born and raised in a country as snowy as Norway. When you grow up surrounded by nature, reminded of its connection to you with every waking hour, your heart warms up to it. I couldn't make myself hate snow. Or sledding. Or winter. But I wasn't so sure whether Halley thought the same.

She was so quiet. Ever since dad passed away, I've only heard her say my name a couple of times. We stuck to living together, us two and mom, so we support each other. Had it not been for my friends to talk with and go out with, I would have forgotten my name; neither of the two women I lived with used it much. Cornelius. I'm sure they miss the way dad used to say it. I do, too. But life goes on.

You have to break the silence eventually. Say their name. Take them back to the present and point them to the happy memories they have left. We humans are, for good or bad, temporary, and so is everything we create, and the world we live in. Tomorrow, we might not even wake up. But if we've had a yesterday we can smile in our sleep about, that's all that matters.

"I'm sure he'd still want to see you enjoying winter, Hal." These are the first words I tell my sister. She's right on time, as always. And though the warmth has slipped from me as I have kept walking on and accepted I will forever underestimate the speed of time's passing, a sudden trickle of warmth makes my breath catch in my throat. Just a small tingle. But when I see her, I forget how cold it is outside.

Halley offers me a lopsided smile. I see it in her eyes, though. "I knew I had the perfect name for you. Corny." The laugh is already blossoming inside my chest, from right where my heart is, spreading all over me like the little waves of water Halley would splash me with on the beach. "Just like a lot of the stuff you say. And write." Her own laugh follows. And the ice is broken.

The ice is broken, yet the frost remains. My sister drags her wooden sled in front of herself and steels her gaze into the distance. The hill we have climbed is the hill we'll ascend. Up, and then down, a reminder of the balance in the universe that exists because of this inconsistency. Halley and I haven't been out like this for so long. It's time to make some more happy memories - just what we need.

"You still like me and what I do." I give her a nudge, and she turns and squishes my cheeks. Mom used to do that countless times when I was little; I used to think she was doing it to make fun of me like my classmates at school did. It felt like that one guy in our last year, ridiculing my love for sci-fi stories, making me feel childish. He didn't even read. But I don't hate him. Or Halley. No, thinking about all this makes me smile.

Everything unwinds like the story in a film. A soft rain of images, pressed directly into the memory, flowers for a herbarium that outlives its creator. Halley's quick glance at me that speaks thousands of words. The silent challenge we exchange. The complete, unbreakable focus and trust we put into our sleds. The wings the snow forms around our sleds. Ah, if Halley could only take photos right now...

Then I see her. The girl behind the camera and the paintbrushes. Clinging onto every memory with dear life, pouring her heart and soul into preserving everything that time's unforgiving hands threaten to turn to dust. She hurts for dad like I do. And this is the way she's showing it. The summer trips. The winter hikes. Photos of anything and everything. An attempt to remember.

"I'm afraid, Corey." A spitting image of mother. Her face when she would tell me she saw father in me so often. The same face that saw father die over and over again every time she looked at me. Halley's face is a spitting image of mother's. "I'm afraid time will blow away all the memories." Like a frosty winter sigh, freezing your heart. And yet, though time's motion is ceaseless, time is no breeze, even if it caresses even the highest mountain.

"It won't. Not until you take down the wall and let it in. And why would you, if neither of us likes the wind?" Perhaps I'm speaking in metaphors again. Talking with Halley does that with me sometimes. She likes how I write, as much as she makes jokes about it. I might call her a nerd, but her dedication to art makes my chest swell with pride. Pride to call her my sister. Pride to call her my friend.

We've stopped sledding an hour ago... and my thoughts have never ceased their endless stream inside my mind. I know Halley's won't, either. Not today, not tomorrow, not in a few years, not until we grow old, not unless they fall prey to forgetfulness. With a mind like hers, I doubt they ever will. But the memories, all the memories, the keeping of which she has wrapped her life around - they will not disappear, either.

I put the sled back in the attic and brush some dirt off. Who knows when I will look for it again. Winter could rule over our home for another few weeks. But then spring will follow. A few years ago, I failed the exam of one of the most interesting subjects at college. Now I'm a writer.

And whenever I remember all the professors who insisted I would never go further than a yellow-page boy, I go through the texts I've written for the art magazine where Halley's photographs first became famous, and I remember the cheer in her voice on the phone.

We couldn't save ourselves from hard times. But they were what taught us how light happiness feels.