Its 1976 in Iceland, and two small children walk together in the snow with their sleds, down the path along their house and towards the sled slope by the playground. It’s dark outside, but they can hear the laughter of the kids on the slope. They are a 7-year-old girl and a 4-year-old boy, looking up to her sister, in every sense of the word. They are siblings and are each other’s lives, playmates and fighting dogs. They can’t spend too much time together at home but can’t be without each other either.
The snow creaks under their little feet that trundle slowly and surely towards the joyful shouts and daily fun of the children in the dark. They are about to get their share of fun and joy, as children’s entertainment is nowhere else to be found at this point in time. This is a long time ago, fifty years ago and before Iceland was allowed to see television on Thursday nights. There is anticipation in their simple hearts, to be able to slide down the hill often and meet all the kids in the neighborhood along the way. No child is at home now and no child is in the library anymore. Here are all the little kids and here life is gathered on one slope.
When you get to the slope, the view is great and everyone has their sleds and tubes, even skis and ski poles. No one stands still, but everyone is speeding down the hill or climbing it up again. There is laughing, shouting, screaming, swearing, bragging and constantly shouting “look at me” just before yet another kid throws himself down the hill. A few of the bigger kids from the big apartment building are lucky enough to have dads who are truck drivers and they show up on the slope with an inflated hose of a truck tire. These are the coolest sleds in the area that take 3-4 kids in one trip, go the farthest and fastest, and everyone wants to get on these things and tell their friends about it. A few years later, I got to go on a trip on one of these and it was awesome. The boy is me. My sister and I had many such moments and many memories from this time that has disappeared from the present and will not come back.
Here in my memory, everyone is happy, everyone is alive and the joy of these kids is pure. This memory warms me and my sister is smiling with me, holding my hand on the way home for dinner after the sledding slope.
Today I am remembering the things that matter, but my sister can no longer lead me. She lives in my memory, because that’s where she gets to live and laugh. My sister died of cancer just 43 years old and didn’t get any more time to live her life. So she lives with me on the snow trip.
