061225

The walk home from the bus stop was about 6/10 of a mile, and dense woods shaded the road from both sides. The year My Father was bitten by a rabid Fox, and had to have those painful shots in his belly, I wanted to run home all the way. But I couldn't run up the Curvaceous Hill (Dad's name for it); I couldn't run the entire distance. But once I could see my house, and I could see the path up through the woods to the door, the place from which we sledded every snowy winter day, then I ran, imagining a fox, foam slavering from its jaws, right behind me. It was never there, but it could have been, it could have been.