It Starts With You

James shook the frost off his boot, cursing under his own breath as the crumple of powder settled underneath it. The locket on his neck, for the first time, felt warm instead of cold on his skin, and he reached a hand up to pull it out from under his layered clothing. The steps he took were heavy, his breath magnifying the air he would exhale, and he couldn't help but remember being a kid and pressing the foggy breaths outwards as if he were innocently smoking.

Playing in snow, messing around with poorly-formed snowballs and throwing them at whoever was around. It felt nice to remember what fun was like. With no expectations or feeling that was result-dependent, that's when he was free. Even in the bitter cold he didn't want to go inside: it was never long enough, and he chuckled at that thought. It never really was. Not enough time, never enough youth.

The lady walking past him gave him a short glare from beneath her flannel scarf, eyebrows inverting as if below was an amused smirk. He realized that he had begun to laugh out of nowhere, on a desolate sidewalk, and the cherry red now covering his face wasn't a product of the breeze but embarrassment. He lowered his head and continued his strut, beckoning his neck not to turn around and look at her as she walked by.

The gate to his right was flicking off snowflakes in dozens as they sat still, and James ran his hand along the top to watch the snow fall off. Daydreaming was far too tempting: he couldn't resist dropping back to his childhood back at the house, Mom poking her head out the door and demanding the kids come inside to not catch frostbite or worse: a cold. He smiled again as the grouping snow dropped on top of his boots, but a frown followed shortly after. He gripped the locket harder in his palm, feeling spoiled nostalgia.

"Kids! Inside, now." James mom demanded, not daring to put a hand out of the door frame. "It's below twenty degrees out there! Come eat dinner and mess about outside after. Hurry!" She called, insisting on the compliant children, including James, to rush indoors.

"Coming, Mom!" James hollered, pounding another snowball into a dense orb that cupped his hand. Small, misleading steps guided him back, but he kept dropping to add layering to the polar thicket.

"Jamey!" She called again, this time without opening the door. "James Broden!" James hurriedly dropped his prized ball at his feet, his full name triggering a duckling response that made him obey her wishes.

James blinked, stopping as his hand fell from the fence. He was at the entrance. He shoved his cold hand into his pocket, the frigid prickling slowly leaving as he began to move inside. The snow was outlining his pant cuffs, the moisture darkening the fabric at the ankles. The brown trees of bark whistled and occasionally would stand still as if time frozen: like hibernating until the leaves grew back. Never enough youth, James thought.

"Now, James, drop your shoes and put those clothes in the dryer. Gosh, you are going to be soaked, put all that up and then come back for dinner okay? It's done." His mother rested her hands on his shoulders, brushing the white off of them as he began to strip the coating off. She ushered him to the laundry room.

Dinner was perfect: warm, homey, and comfortable. Steak, still fatty like James preferred it to be: him and his father liked it that way. The pink-ish ends were chewy and tasteful. His mother hated them uncooked. She insisted on burning her own much darker, which was more work on her end: but it was James' mother, after all. The hardest worker he knew, still to this day. It was hard to meet someone else as hard-willed as that woman.

"Well honey? Is it alright?" She asked, taking a seat, eyes glistening towards James and some of the other kids.

Richy was the youngest, super negotiable and didn't stand out much in crowd. Nance and Paige were the twins: oldest and never got along. They liked everything the other didn't, and forbid you get them mixed up. That was a death sentence.

"It's perfect, Mom. Thank you."

James was a middle child. Smart, below-par at any athletics but above-par as a mommas-boy. He ate what she served, loved what she smiled at. He admired her work ethic and dismissed her flaws as much as she acknowledged them.

James smiled as he turned left, leaving detailed shoe prints in the ground as he slowed his pace. He had time. Time to ponder and think. There wasn't any rush.

His hand dropped from the locket, guiding to his neck as he tightened the collar on his coat to his spine. A scarf would have been nice: another layer of clothes even better. James hated when he got a cold. He'd be stuck in bed, forced under covers by his mother who would order him to stay there and take care of his body.

His bed wasn't very decorative: cotton blankets with thin-cloth pillows, filled with doll stuffing. Brightness was never a part of James profile, and his mother couldn't resist but get him what he liked. Neutral color bed sheets, a darker bed frame and headboard of cottonwood log. It kept that similar scent, normally, of forestry.

"Now, I told you, did I not? A cold. I knew you would get a cold, James, and you insisted on rolling around in that blizzard out there." His mother spoke softly, slight sarcasm in her volume. "I guess I don't mind taking care of you." She reached her head downwards, a small kiss to his forehead.

"I don't ask of much, hon, just take care of yourself. I can't always take care of you when you get a cold, now. It starts with you." She said gently, her hand running down his face with that motherly tenderness.

"I was having fun, is all."

"I know. I know."

James slipped, a small layer of ice from underneath the snow catching him off guard. He rose, some deep breaths of crystallized air, before feeling the shock leave his body. He brushed off the wetness, sighing as it deepened into his skin inferior of his clothes.

He looked upward. The beauty of the stone slabs, even when suffocating in snow, how they all were so powerful spiritually to him. The significance in all those rocks, paved to perfection and named accordingly, the physical remnants just a little below. Two layers of nature covered them, but James still felt it. Still felt the love, the past hatred that died out long times ago. Emotions that all diminished with time other than one: love. Which still yet rung in all the frozen hearts.

He moved forward, careful not to slip over this time. Each step was more cautious than the last. Goosebumps formed across his skin from intermittent winds, lines from within them as they slid along his body.

He stopped, his head lowering instead of looking to the right as it normally should.

James awoke, a plate of breakfast on his bedside and a knock on his door.

"Honey?" His mother opened the knob, walking in with careful steps as if a misplaced one would break the wooden floor.

"Yeah, mom?

"Just checking in, sweetheart. How you feeling?"

"I'm okay. Don't I have school?"

"I figured you could miss for today. I didn't think you would mind that very much." She giggled, a small smile at the crease of her lips before lowering herself at James legs on the bed, taking a curt seat.

"You are getting so old, Jamey. Time just will not slow down."

"I always hear that, Mom. I'm not even that old yet."

"Eleven years old! You could have a job by tomorrow evening." She exclaimed jokingly before moving her hands to her neck. "I thought since you are aging too fast, you could have something to always remember me by. As if I ever age, anyways." The necklace clicked, her hair brushing around as she removed it with her hands. She moved it in front of her, a silver chain with a delicate locket on the end. She flipped it open.

A picture of her. James closed the locket. Stay-at-home-mom with four kids, taking time for each of them as if they were all special. And to her, they were: she spent every waking moment with them. She took care of the food, the clothes, the appointments and dates. The last-minute plans and hefty grocery shopping she would always get done never failed to impress James. A warm tear ran down his cheek, before he turned his head to the right.

One, two, three, four. He counted. The headstones were close, and he ran a hand along the tops as if playing duck-duck-goose. With gentle hands he eased along them, assuring the snow didn't clog the names. Everyone deserved to see the names, chiseled into rock for eternity.

Richard Broden. Paige Broden, Nancy Broden.

And not James Broden, but Rose Broden, his mother. The tears were sticking to his face now, and he felt a drowning sadness envelope his upper half. He dropped to his knees in front of her tomb, his fingers cupping her two dimensional picture. He wiped his runny nose using the crease of his elbow, beginning to smile as she looked more beautiful than ever. They all did.

"You've been outside for awhile, Mom." James sniffled, his words pieced together by staples. "You can't catch a cold."

James dropped his hand to the top of his thigh, moments of staring catching up to him as the sobbing followed. He exhaled deeply.

His hands reached to his neck, and he unclipped the locket, taking one long look at his mother. It felt like being in his room again, the weighted blanket making his legs sweat, his mother at the edge of the bed speaking soft lines to him.

The locket closed, a gentle tick as the lid enveloped her image. James took the chain, hanging it on a small steel pole in front of the grave, closed away.

"You can't always take care of me, I know." The snot was overtaking his nose, and heaving in air wasn't sucking any of it up.

"I gotta take care of myself now, Mom."

James stood upright, a small smile as the memories flooded back, but instead of grievance came joy. He had this beautiful family to love so dearly. He began to walk, the coldness of the stones almost warming as the acceptance decided to settle in. He spoke softly, the words directed to the history he so desperately needed to advance from.

"And it starts with you."