Chapter 1

The Color of Winter

Peter was disgusted. He looked out upon the heavily falling snow from inside the big picture window, and he was extremely displeased. He had planned to roll himself down to the post office today to see if his disability check had come in. He could just about get there himself, if the weather permitted, but his arms didn't have the strength to handle pushing his wheelchair through this much snow. Damnation having post polio syndrome.

"Mom," he shouted. He waited. "Mother!" he demanded.

From the dark recesses of the house, he heard faint noises shuffling toward him. His irritation flashed to guilt, and then anger.

The heavy, stooped woman hobbled into the room.

"What, Peter?" she growled peevishly.

"Damn it, Mother, I need you to drive me to the post office," Peter ordered.

"Drive yourself," the tired, old woman snapped.

"Fuck you!" Peter shouted. "It's not my fault fuckhead Sheriff DuckFart busted me for dui and took my van away."

"Sheriff Dworkin to you, big shot, and whose fault is it?" she pointed out. "And why can't you just roll down to the post office all by your lonesome?"

"Look at all the snow, Stupid Ass," Peter humiliated his mother.

Her patience was at an end. "LOOK at me," she hurled at her lazy son. "I am too old for this shit. I cannot do it any more. I can't lift you, I can't push your chair, there is no one to help me out. You are 42 years old. I'm 75. You figure it out. How are you going to do it when I'm gone?" She slowly turned about to leave, then stopped and glared at him. "When are you ever going to try to do for yourself?" She shook her head, then trudged back to the inner rooms. As she went, she turned down her hearing aids so she couldn't hear him call.

"Damn it!" Peter hissed to himself, angrily. "Damn it," he whispered, his anger turning to self pity, and then to flooding fear. "Oh, what am I going to do?" He put his hands over his eyes, and began taking very deep breaths until he was back in control again.

Rolling into his room, he shut and locked his door. He positioned himself near his window and stuffed the pillow he kept on the sill into the space between his head and the wall. Supported, he stopped his brain from its endless whirring and fretting, and let his favorite fantasy come and take him away.

Anna was such a little girl, all bright eyed and bushy tailed, apple red cheeked and near most always jolly. Anna Marie Amsel was 5 years old, and she loved winter. When she woke up and saw the white blanket covering the land, she began bouncing up and down, clapping her hands together, and whooping, "It snowed, it snowed!"

Ah, she remembered! Petrushka was there, he and his parents, and his big brother Iosif, were visiting her house. Petrushka was 8 years old, and Anna adored everything about him. She had to go and share her excitement. Off she dashed to Dieter's room, where Petrushka slept on a hastily set up cot and Iosif lay on her brother's lower bunk. She burst in and found them all well asleep.