Fern Frost

free verse

I used to go to ski school every Sunday, so prayers lived at the back of the bus.

Curled up in the seat, staring at a hole in the back of it. The brown leather and yellow foam made me think of wax donuts from the gas station, never decay. People taking pieces of you slow with no apology. Putting empty candy wrappers and passed notes in the gaps. 

I remember the chatter on the bus ride home, and the cessation some fifteen minutes in when all the kids got lulled to sleep by the sound of 30 pairs of skis knocking into one another by the emergency back door. The Wisconsin roads were always bumpy, especially with the kind of ice we were used to.

The Joe’s sign alongside the freeway always glowed red, through the fern frost and salt caked on the windows. It always woke me up, I knew we were near home. Honestly, I hated getting off the bus. If I could, I’d go back. I’d curl up in the seat. No headphones this time. Just skis. 

And this time, I’ll be able to tell when we’re at the golf club with my eyes closed. Roads were so confusing before I grew up, they were for adults. I still don’t know where I am most of the time.

I need to ski now but it’s Southern California and the snow here is godless. I fought to be here, you know.