The snow is brown. Well, the snow is white, and the sand is brown, laying unusable on the ground, the rust from the underside of my truck box long gone. My bumper sits atop the snow at the side of the shop, the latest addition to the pile of junk— pardon me, parts— leaning against the outer wall. Past the ugly green snowplow, the little Ford tractor, the rusty 38, I find an opening in the fir trees. To my left is the gas tank from Red, propped up against our recently deceased freezer, and to my right, the pull-behind mower I broke twice in the same day. The snow pile where the garden used to be is so ugly, the sky is barely a different grey than the ground, and we don’t even have the car that hood and roof belong to anymore, but despite the appearances, please know this isn’t a junkyard. It’s just debris from the projects started on a warmer day. Six months ago, there were zucchinis growing where that tractor sits, and the sickle mower was out in the ditches off of the #3. Seven years ago I was out here with a big stick— pardon me, a staff— and a wand and a friend who wanted to tell the same fairy tale I did. We were climbing those fir trees and shooting arrows into those straw bales and we were sure we could save the world from that evil wizard, because you can do anything you want in middle school. She’s a mother now, and I’m stuck at home taking a class I started two years ago, and my toes are so cold from being stuck in the snow like the rest of this junk. My father calls me to feed a bale, and maybe I am junk, but at least I can open a gate. Spring will come, parts will become projects again, and I'll grow up too.

:::

I'm taking a creative writing class again. I've gotten so rusty, but at least I was able to submit my junk on time. Take what you can get, I guess.