Footprints

This story was created for the “Snow Microfiction Challenge” in January 2024. Submissions were required to be exactly 250 words and take place in a snowy setting.

The truck spins out a tenth of the way up the hill. “We’ll have to walk the rest of the way,” Dad says.

I am glad I’ve worn warm boots but regret not wearing thicker socks. As we trudge up the long hill, I try to place my feet strategically in the large footprints Dad leaves in front of me. The wind whips at my face and blows the powdery snow in sweeping puffs to the west. I pull my hat down as far as it will go, but my ears still sting. Looking behind me I can see our tracks filling in from the drifts.

A few feet ahead of me Dad looks like a strong giant wearing the new coveralls my mother got him for Christmas- a snow shovel slung over his shoulder, forging our path forward. He points out coyote tracks to the left. Ahead the old metal windmill grinds and screeches.

From the top of the hill is a sweeping view of the white dusted mountain, the brilliant white fields, and a glimmer of the river sparkling in the afternoon sun. Even in my misery it is impossible not to revel in the beauty of it. I haven’t stepped outdoors in days, the snow a perfect excuse to indulge in feeling sorry for myself for my recent circumstances. But looking now at our progress up the hill I feel the melancholy lift, just a little. This will all melt soon, I think. It always melts eventually.