In The Misted Haze

On a snowy afternoon in January, a bright, golden yellow school bus turns onto Elm Street, devoid of any movement or sound except for the quiet whisper of blowing leaves mixed with the sound of the gently falling snow. A teenage girl lifts her head from its position against the frigid window as she pulls her headphones from her ears and readies herself to step off of the bus, tattered backpack and green iPod in hand.

She half hops, half steps off of the bus. She can’t see it, but she can tell from her ears and the vibrations in her feet when the giant machine turns to the right, blaring yellow against the dull gray of the silent neighborhood like a golden monster, the noise echoing across the otherwise dormant neighborhood.

She begins to walk, setting a brisk pace just fast enough to keep her warm. As she looks forward, wide blue eyes bright against the white drifts, she sees squirrels and birds peering at her from the safety of their homes in the wide arc of trees over the road. Humming a soft tune as she goes, observes the treasure trove of foliage bordering the road. Some, barren of any and all color, stand next to those which haven’t quite lost all their clothing of crinkling, brown leaves. Then there were the evergreens, forming a wide tunnel of not quite touching branches over the street, protecting her sensitive ivory skin from the harsh winds.

She shivers as she pulls her thin denim jacket tight around her shoulders. Passing under the green archway of branches and leaves, she turns off of the main road and onto a narrow gravel pathway. As she finishes the song she has been humming, she stops for a few silent moments to listen to the twittering of the carefree birds and the rushed chatter of the squirrels. Somewhere in the distance, a rabbit scampers away through the underbrush.

She resumes her steady pace and the animals stop their movements at the crunch of gravel under human feet. The snow begins to fall more swiftly. The terrain changes abruptly from hard gravel to scratchy, dead grass as she turns once more. The graceful, majestic trees on her left side gradually give way to thick, tangled underbrush and scraggly weeds. She runs her hand over the rough wood of a short cattle fence as she continues on, hoping against any splinters.

A squat, blue house appears in her line of vision. Quickening her pace, she sets her course for the shelter of its blue and white front porch. She stares at the permanent puddle next to the house’s driveway, wondering why it isn’t frozen. She skirts around it, traversing across a small river of gravel once more.

Now she steps onto a walkway of evenly spaced slates placed in a bed of black and brown pebbles. She avoids the slick patches of ice as she ascends four creaking blue steps to the porch above. She sets her scribbled on pink and black backpack onto a white wicker porch table and unzips the front section, searching for her keys. She pulls out the jangling mess as a dog barks in the distance, receiving no reply.

As she inserts the jagged-edged scrap of metal into the keyhole and steps into the still house, black boots clacking against the hard linoleum entranceway, a black and brown dog licks her hand, demanding her attention. She shuts the blue door behind her, shielding the soft warmth of the house against the cold of the icy winter wind as she thinks to herself, I'm home.