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Description
Winter wages war as my father struggles to keep us on the road. Snow—three inches thick—battles the windshield wipers, pinning the plastic to the frosting glass of my mother's new Honda Civic. The snow builds up quickly, causing my father to roll down his window to jerk the rods free, letting in icy air that whistles around my ears. Each sharp wisp causes my skin to tingle and sting, sometimes making my eyes water up, but I'm not crying.

For the past three miles, I've been observing something magnificent: The mixture of warm air and cold air that manifest in a cloud of smoke when I breathe. Whenever my father exhales the smoke from his cigarette, I mock him by puffing my own imaginary cigar as I fiddle with my seat buckle in the backseat. I have the urge to unlatch myself and stretch my wet boots on the vinyl. But I dare not dirty my mom's new car or anger my father. So I fog the already frosted window and begin painting with my fingers, first a dog and then a cat.

"Jacob," says my father. "I know you're not putting your fingers on the glass."

I try to talk but my mother intervenes.

"Let him be."

"How much did we just pay for this damn car? He can clean it."

I remove my fingers from the glass and grimace at my incomplete work. A cat with no tail! I can feel my dad's eyes watching me in the rearview mirror, waiting for me to screw up again, one more thing to pick at. But I won't let him have his fun. I'll just wait until tomorrow when Mom brings me to work and finish what I started.

"Did you pick up milk like I asked you?" asks my dad.

"No, you told me to just get orange juice."

"Damn it! I said milk like three times."

He never asked her to get milk. I was listening in the kitchen earlier and he specifically listed: one cartoon of eggs, one gallon of orange juice, three packs of fruit-cups, a packet of bacon, and a box of cheese. He has a tendency to think he says stuff and then argues when someone corrects him. It's almost as if he does this on purpose to invoke an argument. What a lunatic! That's what my mother called him the other night after she supposedly forgot to get pizza.

"Well, it looks like we have to turn around," he says. "Thanks."

"You didn't tell me to get milk, Brian."

"Yes, I did. Don't argue with me or you can get out and walk!"

"Fine, pull over."

My father drives for another mile, and once the snow builds up again, he unrolls his window with the plastic crank. But he can't reach the wipers and has to lunge for the farthest one, still holding the steering wheel to keep us on the road. The visibility outside is nearing zero and I notice my mother tighten her seatbelt. But still my father will not give up and continues to inch his fingers to the frozen plastic.

"You should just pull over!" yells my mother.

"We're almost home!"

"How can you tell?"

"I just know!"

He reaches the farthest wiper and yanks it free.

"If you wreck the car, you're paying for it."

"Just stop talking, Tamie!"

But we're far from home. A minute ago we crossed over the bridge that my father insists on taking in the winter between Marquette and Gwinn. I could hear the noise of the textured cement against the tires, a sound like covering your ears and quickly removing your hands. I hate crossing that bridge in a snowstorm. I always feel like we're going to hit a patch of ice and drift into oncoming traffic. My mother would be the one to get hit and maybe my father would smash his nose on the steering wheel, driving the bone into his brain. I'd be left alone to fend for myself until someone pried me out.

"Let's just pull over, you're scaring Jacob."

"He's fine, Tamie. We'll be home in a few minutes."

"You're an idiot for driving in this weather."

"That's it!"

I can feel the tires lock up as he tries to slam the breaks and we swerve on the icy road, nearly sliding into the banks of snow.

"What are you doing?" asks my mother.

"You're going to learn. Get out."

"What?"

"Get out!"

As she grips the latch of her door, she hesitates and looks back at me. Our eyes meet but there are no words, just the tears at the corners of her eyes. She smiles unnaturally, lowers her head and pulls the latch outward, releasing the door and letting in a gust of wind and snow. And as she begins to close the door, I watch her breathe that mesmerizing white cloud of air. It twirls and rises and disappears.

When my father drives away, I twist in my seat to watch her through the back window. She keeps her head down and arms tucked into her black tweed overcoat as the snow begins to cling to every stitch of the fabric. The wind buffets her and she staggers. And as my father rounds the corner, I watch as she begins to walk, first stomping with her left heel, then the right.

I want to fight my father, to punch and scratch him until he stops the car. But I say nothing and glare at the rearview mirror, hoping he'll look into the glass and notice my aggression. My only thought is too jump out of the car and stomp alongside my mother. Anything would be better than sitting here doing nothing, as my mother has to walk by herself in the cold. I hate my father.

We pass the pulsing amber light above the turnoff to K.I. Sawyer and my father pulls off to the side of the road. And as we come to a halt, I turn around to again look out the back window. I can no longer see my mother, not even a silhouette against the snow and wind. I can just see the thumping of the yellow light and the cigarette smoke that fills my nostrils as my father lights another one. He tosses his lighter into the back seat and it hits a tackle box with a dull tick.

"Your mother is going to learn one of these days."

I am silent.

"You hear me?"

He reaches back his right arm and taps my knees.

"Hey," he says. "Are you listening to me?"

I nod my head.

"Eh, she'll be here in a minute. I need to get this food home."

He laughs.

"I sure bet its cold out there. I hate this time of year."

I twist around in my seat and I can make out the outline of her slim body. She is hunkered over, tucking her arms into her armpits. Her once black coat is now thick with snow and ice.

"It's about time," he says. "Why don't we go back and give her a lift?"

He shifts into reverse and begins backing the car down the road. He reaches her and pulls alongside, rolling down his window as the snow begins to blow inside.

"Would you get in?"

She keeps walking.

He slips the car into drive.

"Hey!" he shouts, blowing out cigarette smoke. "Get in!"

The wind howls.

"Damn it, Tamie. Please just get in. Tamie!"

"Mom!"

She stops and looks at my father, then me. Her eyes are full of rage, the eyes of a woman who has been left in the cold for so long. She just walks in front of her moving car, brushing the bumper with the side of her coat. She rounds the passenger door and grips the door handle with such force that I can see the vein on her forehead bulge. And as she settles into the cushioned seat, she slams the door, causing a small avalanche of snow and ice to roll down the window.

"I didn't actually think you'd get out and walk," says my father.

She is silent

"What?" he asks. "Not going to talk to me now?"

The windshield wipers scrape across the frosted glass.

Description
Winter wages war as my father struggles to keep us on the road. Snow—three inches thick—battles the windshield wipers, pinning the plastic to the frosting glass of my mother's new Honda Civic. The snow builds up quickly, causing my father to roll down his window to jerk the rods free, letting in icy air that whistles around my ears. Each sharp wisp causes my skin to tingle and sting, sometimes making my eyes water up, but I'm not crying.

For the past three miles, I've been observing something magnificent: The mixture of warm air and cold air that manifest in a cloud of smoke when I breathe. Whenever my father exhales the smoke from his cigarette, I mock him by puffing my own imaginary cigar as I fiddle with my seat buckle in the backseat. I have the urge to unlatch myself and stretch my wet boots on the vinyl. But I dare not dirty my mom's new car or anger my father. So I fog the already frosted window and begin painting with my fingers, first a dog and then a cat.

"Jacob," says my father. "I know you're not putting your fingers on the glass."

I try to talk but my mother intervenes.

"Let him be."

"How much did we just pay for this damn car? He can clean it."

I remove my fingers from the glass and grimace at my incomplete work. A cat with no tail! I can feel my dad's eyes watching me in the rearview mirror, waiting for me to screw up again, one more thing to pick at. But I won't let him have his fun. I'll just wait until tomorrow when Mom brings me to work and finish what I started.

"Did you pick up milk like I asked you?" asks my dad.

"No, you told me to just get orange juice."

"Damn it! I said milk like three times."

He never asked her to get milk. I was listening in the kitchen earlier and he specifically listed: one cartoon of eggs, one gallon of orange juice, three packs of fruit-cups, a packet of bacon, and a box of cheese. He has a tendency to think he says stuff and then argues when someone corrects him. It's almost as if he does this on purpose to invoke an argument. What a lunatic! That's what my mother called him the other night after she supposedly forgot to get pizza.

"Well, it looks like we have to turn around," he says. "Thanks."

"You didn't tell me to get milk, Brian."

"Yes, I did. Don't argue with me or you can get out and walk!"

"Fine, pull over."

My father drives for another mile, and once the snow builds up again, he unrolls his window with the plastic crank. But he can't reach the wipers and has to lunge for the farthest one, still holding the steering wheel to keep us on the road. The visibility outside is nearing zero and I notice my mother tighten her seatbelt. But still my father will not give up and continues to inch his fingers to the frozen plastic.

"You should just pull over!" yells my mother.

"We're almost home!"

"How can you tell?"

"I just know!"

He reaches the farthest wiper and yanks it free.

"If you wreck the car, you're paying for it."

"Just stop talking, Tamie!"

But we're far from home. A minute ago we crossed over the bridge that my father insists on taking in the winter between Marquette and Gwinn. I could hear the noise of the textured cement against the tires, a sound like covering your ears and quickly removing your hands. I hate crossing that bridge in a snowstorm. I always feel like we're going to hit a patch of ice and drift into oncoming traffic. My mother would be the one to get hit and maybe my father would smash his nose on the steering wheel, driving the bone into his brain. I'd be left alone to fend for myself until someone pried me out.

"Let's just pull over, you're scaring Jacob."

"He's fine, Tamie. We'll be home in a few minutes."

"You're an idiot for driving in this weather."

"That's it!"

I can feel the tires lock up as he tries to slam the breaks and we swerve on the icy road, nearly sliding into the banks of snow.

"What are you doing?" asks my mother.

"You're going to learn. Get out."

"What?"

"Get out!"

As she grips the latch of her door, she hesitates and looks back at me. Our eyes meet but there are no words, just the tears at the corners of her eyes. She smiles unnaturally, lowers her head and pulls the latch outward, releasing the door and letting in a gust of wind and snow. And as she begins to close the door, I watch her breathe that mesmerizing white cloud of air. It twirls and rises and disappears.

When my father drives away, I twist in my seat to watch her through the back window. She keeps her head down and arms tucked into her black tweed overcoat as the snow begins to cling to every stitch of the fabric. The wind buffets her and she staggers. And as my father rounds the corner, I watch as she begins to walk, first stomping with her left heel, then the right.

I want to fight my father, to punch and scratch him until he stops the car. But I say nothing and glare at the rearview mirror, hoping he'll look into the glass and notice my aggression. My only thought is too jump out of the car and stomp alongside my mother. Anything would be better than sitting here doing nothing, as my mother has to walk by herself in the cold. I hate my father.

We pass the pulsing amber light above the turnoff to K.I. Sawyer and my father pulls off to the side of the road. And as we come to a halt, I turn around to again look out the back window. I can no longer see my mother, not even a silhouette against the snow and wind. I can just see the thumping of the yellow light and the cigarette smoke that fills my nostrils as my father lights another one. He tosses his lighter into the back seat and it hits a tackle box with a dull tick.

"Your mother is going to learn one of these days."

I am silent.

"You hear me?"

He reaches back his right arm and taps my knees.

"Hey," he says. "Are you listening to me?"

I nod my head.

"Eh, she'll be here in a minute. I need to get this food home."

He laughs.

"I sure bet its cold out there. I hate this time of year."

I twist around in my seat and I can make out the outline of her slim body. She is hunkered over, tucking her arms into her armpits. Her once black coat is now thick with snow and ice.

"It's about time," he says. "Why don't we go back and give her a lift?"

He shifts into reverse and begins backing the car down the road. He reaches her and pulls alongside, rolling down his window as the snow begins to blow inside.

"Would you get in?"

She keeps walking.

He slips the car into drive.

"Hey!" he shouts, blowing out cigarette smoke. "Get in!"

The wind howls.

"Damn it, Tamie. Please just get in. Tamie!"

"Mom!"

She stops and looks at my father, then me. Her eyes are full of rage, the eyes of a woman who has been left in the cold for so long. She just walks in front of her moving car, brushing the bumper with the side of her coat. She rounds the passenger door and grips the door handle with such force that I can see the vein on her forehead bulge. And as she settles into the cushioned seat, she slams the door, causing a small avalanche of snow and ice to roll down the window.

"I didn't actually think you'd get out and walk," says my father.

She is silent

"What?" he asks. "Not going to talk to me now?"

The windshield wipers scrape across the frosted glass.