It's time. The toboggan pulled down from the rafters of the garage, we weave our way through the woods to the hill. The light is dim; it's close to bedtime.

The hill is full of students with cafeteria trays, kids from other neighborhoods with plastic discs in primary colors. But we are the royal family of the hill, we with our toboggan. Dad sits at the back of the great wood sled, weighing it down, boots dug into the snow, and invites us to hop on in front of him. "All legs in?" We nod and hold on tightly to each other. Trying not to laugh too hard.

Tonight my dad is the Toboggan King.

He pushes off —

The thrill. The air hitting our teeth.

We climb back up the hill. A few of the students cast aside their trays, shake hands with Dad, ask us if they can have a go on the great wooden sled. In the darkness I can barely make out the eyes of these strangers, their faces obscured by scarves. The boys are tall and thin, dressed in corduroy and denim; the girls frosted blonde and bundled in purple wool. Anyone.

Racing down the hill, holding on to strangers in the moonlight. Our fingertips growing numb.

"One more time, Dad?" The bare branches of the trees at the top of the hill, surely haunted, begin to shake, blessing him with a crown of snow.

For our last run, someone has the idea to form a chain. The purple wool girls giggle and squeeze in front of my sister. My brother, energized, climbs over the boys at the back. One kid grabs onto a rope at the back of the toboggan with his disc, then another, then — "Wait for me!" — the rest. Surely the largest sled this world has ever seen, we are certain.

Our Dad, the Great Toboggan King, takes charge, calling out to the scrambling mass of bodies struggling to hold on to whatever they can: "Ready?" We shout back "Ready!" in one voice and then the hill is quiet, holding its breath. All of us: holding our breath. The snow creaks as we push ourselves to the precipice, packing under the bulk of twenty-odd sledders, then —

— and we fall into a heap at the bottom of the hill.

The boys in corduroy pat Dad on the shoulder and, whipping snow at each other's backs, head to the top of the hill and their waiting cafeteria trays. Dad picks up the ropes of the toboggan, and points the sled home.

Back at the house, we burst indoors, calling out to Mom, casting off wet mittens, boots crusted with ice, oversized knit hats. The dog leaps into our debris, sniffing our pockets for scents of the outdoors, but finds only wet wool and melting ice. With pins and needles the warmth returns and we shout over each other: "You should have seen it, Mom!"

Outside, Dad lifts the toboggan above his head, and slides it back into the rafters.

(How I wish I could go outside today. Instead I sit indoors, waiting for a cold to pass, peddling nostalgia and watching the snow melt.)