Helen Zelon

The weekend had been cold. Prospect Park was blanketed under 16 inches of snow, with a fresh powderfall that made the icy runs down Mount Prospect a little gentler, made our hard landings into the frozen meadow a little softer. That Saturday afternoon, February 12th, our family was part of a larger outing, a group of eighteen bundled kids and foot-stamping adults, gone sledding en masse.

We rode single and double; airplane style and traditional; tobogganed with our kids in front, the better to feel the sting of the snow over the sled’s metal runners. The hotdoggers among us, more than a few, slid down on plastic garbage-can lids, gripping the molded handles tight. As the light began to fade and the bare trees’ ashy shadows lengthened, the group parted company. Once we got home again, each of us trouped to the bathroom — the afternoon in the cold made our bladders’ needs plainly urgent, as we relaxed in the comfort and warmth of home. I went last, only to discover three dime-sized drops of bright-red blood on my briefs, and nearly fainted. …

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