The people of the town would look back at those autumn weeks when they were waiting for the first snow, when the trees were leafless and the roads were dusty with salt. At some point the street lights began to stay on for the children’s walks to school. They’d reach back further and find the warm zephyrs of late summer evenings. People take pictures of those moments, their children around the fire in stretched-out swimsuits and bare feet, dirty fingers pulling apart charred marshmallows. Brand new school supplies tucked in a new backpack. Newly too-small jeans and dresses taken to the thrift store to make way for fresh clothes, washed and folded, except for the chosen outfit.
First-day-of-school photos, all the siblings with their hair wet-combed. It’s time to put away sprinklers, and sun hats and sandals. Then piles of crisp orange leaves dot the lawns of the town, and horses graze in misty fields up the valley. Mothers take pictures of Halloween costumes, of hockey stars and wizards and little ducks. The fathers walk the little ones around with their plastic pumpkin buckets.
The parents of the five dead children would’ve put away their summer clothes; brought the warmer pyjamas to the front of the drawers. Carried the citronella candles and the patio cushions to the garage. Noticed the mornings getting cooler, and the mother bear with her twins daring to come into town to feast on the windfalls from the crabapple trees that lined the main road. Maybe they would look back on those ordinary things and find some kind of comfort.
The snow came, and the cold hardened the ice on the lake until it was safe to skate on. That first night of skating there was a bonfire, like every year. The kids tore around beyond the glow of the fire, laughing and shouting in the half dark. There were three truckloads of wood. The tips of the flames touched the low-slung stars. Cans of beer poked out of the pile of snow left after ploughing the lot. Whiskey and vodka and coolers too. Most of the vehicles had their stereos set to Mountain FM, but not obnoxiously loud. A set of moms heated up hot chocolate in a canning pot big enough to bathe the babies, who sat roly-poly in their snowsuits, eating snow. The older children, including all the ones who would perish in the avalanche, stood in line with rosy cheeks for a ladle of hot chocolate topped with little marshmallows and whipped cream from a can. Ordinary things. Perfect treasures.
Copyright © 2023 by Carrie Mac. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.