The Long Short Way
"Which way is quickest, Mo?" Mila asked. Mo blinked, slow and kind. Snow lay soft on the little path. Mila pressed it with her mitten. Puff. The lane to the lantern bridge went round and round. Mila pointed between two cottages. "Mo, is this the short way?"
They went between the cottages. The snow was deep and squeaky. Squeak, squeak, squeak. Mila touched a wall. It was rough and cold. Mo walked slow. Mo was always slow. The little path turned. It did not go to the bridge. It went to the woodpile.
The woodpile was bumpy and dry. Mila rubbed the bark. Scratchy. A cat sat on top, warm as a bun. Mila stroked her. Purr, purr. Soft fur, soft cat. Then they went on, past the woodpile, round the back of the big barn.
Behind the barn hung a long woolly blanket. It was fuzzy. Mila pushed it with her nose. Fuzzy and warm. Snow fell off in soft lumps. Flump. Mo waited. Mila laughed. Then they turned again, down the slope, past three small lit windows.
Icicles hung beside a door. Mila touched one. Smooth. So smooth and wet. Drip, drip on her mitten. Mo watched the drips fall. The lane was long. The lane was longer than before. Mila did not mind. "Mo, is this the short way?" Mo kept walking.
At last the lantern bridge glowed ahead. The long way. The slow way. The squeaky, fuzzy, smooth way. Mila laid her hand on Mo's shell. Bumpy and cool. Snow came down. The village was quiet. "Mo, is this the short way?" Mila whispered. She yawned.
Home. Mila lay under the wool blanket. Mo rested by her bed, slow and warm. Her mitten dried near the lamp. Snow brushed the window, soft, soft. Mila breathed in. Mila breathed out. Mo breathed too, slower still. The whole village breathed with them.
