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CRAZY SNOW
The night my uncle Charles died he asked Miriam, his
second wife, to bring a photograph of Larry, Charles’ son, killed in Viet
Nam July of ’68. She finds a shot of Larry taken not six months before his
death. It’s a winter scene. Larry’s on skis, rose-cheeked, smart aleck grin,
goggles on his forehead, his purple parka dotted with snow. His eyes are
dark. A three day growth of beard stains his face. He’s engaged to a girl
named Clare. They plan to marry in a meadow above Lake Tahoe. We get a call
one warm night from Clare, her voice a whisper, saying Larry’s dead, far
away, no details. Thirty years pass like thirty years. My uncle, dying,
believes by staring at the picture of his boy he’ll close his eyes, open his
eyes and there Larry will be, smirking, ready for a final run before dark
sets in, and Charles says Let me take one more to remember you by. Charles
knows his boy will be killed but he can’t bring himself to reveal this—It’s
his boy, his only boy. Snow needles Charles’ gloveless hands. The place is
Heavenly Valley, a few miles above Tahoe. Eight inches of new powder have
fallen. Father and son stand together by the chairlift floodlight in a blue
ring of neon, snow sparkling about them, the picture now face down on
Charles’ chest, his eyes open, his lips working to say Larry, don’t go. One
more shot, just one. I can’t see you in this crazy snow.
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