Chapter 5
558 Words
CHAPTER 1
If you were to look at me in passing and see my bright blue hair, you might guess I was some kind of art major with a decided bleeding-heart complex. Well, you’d actually be pretty close. Except instead of art, it’s theater.
My name is Willow Winters, which if you had any reservations before about my slightly bohemian tendencies earlier, you can assure yourself that your first impression wasn’t mistaken. With me it’s what you see is what you get. Promise.
It’s kind of funny, really. I’m an only child, and so you’d think I’d be more used to being the center of attention, except I’m not. If I had friends who were of marrying age or inclination at this stage in my life, I’d definitely be the twice a bridesmaid type or however that saying goes. In fact, even in my theater roles I’m almost always thrown into a critically important albeit nevertheless supporting part.
twice a bridesmaidFine by me. Fewer people to let down if you mess anything up.
I’m just the blue-haired second fiddle. That could be the name of my autobiography, I swear. Except now I’m stepping into the spotlight. Because it’s time for me to tell my own story. My own way.
Are you ready?
Let’s go.
It’s so funny. Until I moved out here to the East Coast, I didn’t think that being from Alaska was any different than being from, oh, say Montana or Georgia or any of the other forty-nine states in the union. But people kind of geek out here when I tell them where I’m from, so I guess I’ll go ahead and start there.
Yes, I’m from Alaska. No, I don’t ski cross-country to travel from one town to another, nor have I ever seen or spent the night in an igloo. I live an hour away from the nearest grocery store, and my town only has about three hundred people living in it. (Drop that down to a hundred and fifty in the winters if you count the snowbirds.)
Because I’m from Alaska, I’m going to say a few things differently than you. When I talk about going outside, I’m talking about leaving the wonderful beauty of Alaska and venturing out to the Lower 48. (That’s the contiguous United States if you’re not familiar with the phrase.) A snow machine is what everyone else in the States insists on calling a snowmobile, and breakup season has nothing to do with romantic relationships and everything to do with melted ice and snow.
Because I’m an Alaskan, I’m more than comfortable processing a moose (even though I’m most decidedly vegan), snowshoeing for five or ten miles a day, and using an outhouse. No, I don’t drive a team of sled dogs around (although my nearest neighbors do). Yes, I have running water at home (although we have to haul it in on the back of my dad’s truck). Yes, I’ve seen the northern lights, made fireweed jelly, and driven over potholes big enough to drown a beluga.
So, now that we’ve gotten those preliminaries out of the way, it’s time for me to tell you about my most recent trip back home. It’s time for me to tell you about the closest I’ve ever come to dying, and how that experience ultimately saved my life.
- Writer
