An act of grace

The mountain, or maybe it was simply a hill, rose straight up like an inverted cone. Tall evergreens, slender and bereft of many branches because their proximity blocked the sun, covered every inch. Except for the road, a clay-colored dirt road.

The road started at the bottom and rose all the way to the top, winding, winding, around the mountain like a spiral staircase. It was snowing at the bottom of the mountain, but what she could see of the trees and the road was clear, so clear she wondered if they had ever been touched by snow.

It was imperative, she felt, that she reach the top before the snow did and so released the brake, gripped the steering wheel and slowly pushed down on the gas. Her speed built up by the time she began the actual assent and she trembled with fear of losing momentum.

She told herself to stop thinking of what might be, of what could happen. Worst case scenarios. Just concentrate on getting up the hill, the mountain, whatever the h*ell it was, because there was no way she would be able to steer if the wheels lost their grip on the road and the car wound backward down the hill.

Besides, the road was narrow and if another vehicle was to come up behind her, she would have to crash into it or into the forest. For that matter, going up didn't offer passing space either and stopping in the face of another vehicle would also send her on that imagined, dreadful downward spiral.

Glancing at her passenger, she wondered how the old woman kept calm in the face of this harrowing ride. Grandma Grace sat erect, her hands primly folded one on the other in her lap. Her shirtwaist dress just covered her knees, her high-heeled shoes looked precariously dangerous for a woman of her eighth decade. She wore no coat, no hat, and no gloves. She hummed as she looked straight ahead, never swaying on the endless curves.

The top of the mountain was a surprise. Imagine pulling onto the downtown street of a New England town. Snow frosted the roofs of stores and office buildings. Sidewalks had been carefully shoveled. There remained only a powdery white shadow on the plowed street.

She stopped the car in the middle of the street. She turned off the motor, removed the key and climbed out. The street itself was empty. The sidewalks were too.

She let her eyes slide from view to view. When at last her vision reached the far end of the street, she saw someone bundled in a coat, hair covered with a scarf, gloves warming her hands. Her legs were bare except maybe for stockings. She couldn't tell from this distance. On her feet were dangerously high-heeled shoes.

"Grandma", she called to the old woman who held a broom and hummed as she gently swept a path down the middle of the snow-dusted street.

"Grandma Grace, I'm home."

Learn more about this author, Kathleen Richardson.
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