Snowman
by Rebekah Willis


Although she could see them, the sound of their laughter had faded; captured by the marauding winter winds and ushered into other barren fields beyond the slight hills. She smiled.

When they returned from their play, there would be cocoa on the table arranged very nicely in the red and green mugs. In a little tray would be fat marshmallows and graham crackers, with a cutting from the evergreen out front, just for an extra kick.

They’d tumble over themselves getting at it. ‘Thanks, Mom’s’ getting lost among the slosh and snowy boots they would leave at the back door.

She smiled.

Although she could see them, the dancing ice flakes, flickering and spinning on the capricious wind gusts went about their business without acknowledging her in the slightest bit. If it weren’t for the kids, she thought, unwilling to finish.

She closed her eyes, testing her tongue against the back of her teeth. She opened her mouth only slightly, feeling her eye muscles clench and her jaw pulling left. She cleared her throat. “Uh, h-hello.” Sounded ok. Still pretty slurred, but much better. She needed her speech to improve for tonight, just so the kids wouldn’t worry before bed.

“Kay, you sound fine,” Rita sighed, stirring the milk gently. She checked the heat. “Besides, the boys already know your speech is impaired. What is the worry? They’re smarter than you think.”

“I don’t—“ Her voice cut away, her muscles always 40 seconds behind her intent. “—think they are s—“ Her chin brushed at her left shoulder, tongue stuck in an unending pronunciation of ‘s’. Self-consciously, Kay pushed at her jaw with the back of her right hand.

“—Stupid. I know, Kay. I hear you.” Rita grabbed at the cocoa, a little bit tired.

“Should tell them to come in now. I’m done in an hour.” She slid the little saucers onto the kitschy tray, depositing it on the table. She looked out at the kids. “Just breathe for a minute. Don’t let him upset you.”

She did breathe… in shallow gusts. She pressed her right hand onto the keyboard wedged in her lap. From this fanciful position she could see the large print on the oversized keys, but she barely needed to anymore. Lightly, unintelligible tones passed her vocal chords, almost in sync with the mechanical recitation of these words, “I’m not upset. I’m tired. Let Barry say what he wants to. He can’t have my kids.”

Rita glanced at her. Ran the terry cloth along her lips. “You wanna turn-in now? I got 50 minutes.”

She opened her eyes. Barry was already tying the scarf around the lopsided snow man’s neck. I told you I’d do it. He’d never created anything from scratch, let alone in the snow. You love it, baby. You know you do.

A lifetime ago Kay lived for the sight, for the sound of his voice. Like the very sunlight, joyfully, she covered his every move. Barry, that’s the worst looking creature I’ve ever seen.

She laughed at him once, when the boys were still babies. She’d covered her arms in an afghan, stood on the back steps and laughed at him.

It’s a wonderful snowman! He had thundered in 15ft tones, his big hands holding her, flushed by the winter winds. Barely two inches. With barely two inches he’d constructed the lumpy figure, so eager to please her. He grabbed her. He lifted. It’s a wonderful snowman… he purred in her ear.

Then, he was happy. He thought it was over. But she weaned the twins and the movements returned. She was too young for this. He was too young for this. Could anyone ever be old enough for this?

“Mom! Did you see me?” “Oh, stellar! Hot chocolate!” “Thanks, mom. That’s awesome.”

They bustle right by her, a kiss on each cheek, winter clothes everywhere.

“Josh. Colin, pick up your jacket. We don’t have a maid.” She laughs in her own muffled tones, her mechanical voice following them into the other room.

Rebekah Willis lives with early on-set generalized Dystonia. She started this magazine to be useful to all those living with Dystonia and to lend her efforts towards meeting a perceived need for practical living support within the community.