Dad was already pulling his big, black boots on when I stepped into the kitchen. "Come on, Sara," he said to me excitedly. "The snow is three inches thick and still coming down, and the moonlight is lighting the field. Let's take the sled down Old Martha!" Martha was what we called the giant sledding hill in the back field, on account of it being large and round, like my great-aunt Martha; she would die of embarrassment if she weren't already gone.
I didn't need much convincing. A few minutes later we walked side by side through the softly falling snow, me pulling the sled behind. Except for the hushed swish of our boots on new snow, there wasn't a sound. Moonlight spread across the open field like a beam, illuminating the night and revealing a pristine mound of whiteness.
Dad glanced down at me and smiled. "Race you to the top!" he cried and he sprinted away. "No fair!" I giggled and ran to catch up. I passed him half way up the hill, then turned and waited for him to join me at the top. He had stopped running, and I could see his limp, though he hid it well.
Out of breath and coughing, he greeted me with his endless smile, then stood for a minute, quiet, staring down the hill. "Dad," I began, but he cut me short. "Well, whattaya waiting for, Sugar Plum? This hill ain't gonna wait forever!" He jumped onto the sled and beckoned me to sit. Wiping away the tears that threatened to spill, I climbed onto the seat in front of him, then leaned back and nestled into his once strong arms. "I love you, daddy," I said. "I love you, too, Sugar Plum," he replied, then we pushed off for our descent, giggling all the way.
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