We are going to go down ONCE. We HAVE to go down at least once.
I settle in front. Husband sits close behind. We wear our pea coats and dressy boots. The night is starlit. Stars spread out above us, dazzling pinpricks of light upon a black cloak of night. It is breezeless. Achingly cold.
The snow-clad hill glows brightly despite the late hour. Trudging up its ice encrusted surface are a clustered huddle of children, wobbling marshmallow figures, scritch-scratch sound of snow pants. Their mothers stand in a cloistered semicircle atop the hill. I hear gossip. I hear whispered, covid inspired venting, seep into the cold February air.
The hill is steep. Steeper than I remember. Steeper than it looks from the road that runs its perimeter. And at the foot, are those bumps I see? Little hills and hummocks strategically placed to bruise middle aged posteriors… Behind us we drag our twelve-year-old neighbour’s plastic sled.
I planned this. Secretly and stealthily. I borrowed the slide and hid it below our deck. Covertly, I tossed it into the back of our truck. Date nights are not easy during a lockdown. There is quite literally nowhere warm to go. And we were both desperate to be outside of our home, our sanctuary turned prison cell. As such, we ordered food from a popular restaurant, sat atop Signal Hill and watched the city twinkle while we ate. Around us, a steady bustle of people jostled for parking places and the perfect picture-perch on the cement wall that overlooks the frigid surging Atlantic.
We strolled the downtown and looked into favorite windows, creating casual wish lists from the items on bright display. We held hands and meandered in and out, alternating from single file to shoulder to shoulder, distancing from fellow sidewalk travellers. Mask on – mask off, an eerie Karate Kid style satire, fully dependent upon the sidewalk congestion.
Now we reach the pinnacle plan of the night. The snow burdened hill. The borrowed plastic slide. The well-dressed couple.
It was the point of the night where I usually hesitate. I’ve made a plan. Exposed a playful nature. Then I feel silly. This was the pivotal moment – Do I call it off and pretend that it is of no consequence?
Not tonight. We WILL slide down this hill. No, we do not have a kid to act as camouflage. No, I do not care…
Husband is already sitting in the loaner slide, I drop down in front of him, quickly realizing that children’s slides are not built for adult comfort. We discuss a plan to avoid the ascending children. I hold my breath. Husband of the huge biceps begins to walk-push us forward with his gloved hands on the icy incline, then shifts to an angle to avoid the laughing children. This causes me fear, a quickened breath in my chest. Do you remember childhood escapades of hurtling down a hill side on? Something, namely him or me, will break if we continue on this course. Snap like brittle kindling. But we are moving now and gathering momentum.
I shift and we straighten like a slow-moving freighter in the bay. Ballast is maintained. I lean back. And we head straight for three terrified kids. They scatter like seeds on the wind as we hurtle down. Frigid air lands on my face. An invisible palm gentles on my chest, pinning me back. In that moment, my held breath expels in a gush and my head is thrown back while I laugh, soundless and sweet. I have channeled my inner Nan. Her laughter always started with a silent, mirth filled face and culminated in a knee slap. Pressed into my husband, I feel his rumbled laughter, deep and low in his chest as we hit the moguls at the bottom of the slope. Yes, they bruise. Yes, they raise us up, air bound, for the briefest moment before we spin sideways and careen to a stop, like a teenager laying rubber on summer pavement.
A moment passes where we lay there, weak, our laughter slung into the sky. We clasp our heaving bellies beneath gloved hands. Finally, we stumble up and out of the slide. We meander a haphazard trail, sleek footwear slipping, clasping each other at elbow, back, hand. Two moving parts of one larger whole, we trip our way skyward, a trail of laughter scatters behind us and tinkles up towards the stars.