Wahrheit und Dichtung

by Bill Yarrow

When I was eight years old, I stepped into
a snow bank in Pennsylvania and sank
in over my head. I remember looking up
through a hole in the snow and seeing
only brazen emptiness. I don't remember
feeling fear. I remember thinking, “This
is interesting.” Finally, I rescued myself
by pulling myself up on the hardened crust.

My family moved to Provo, Utah, where my
father took a railroad job. One day, the train
he was working was hit by an avalanche and
derailed. The snow broke the windows and
rushed in, filling the cars. Most of the passengers
suffocated. My father carved a breathing space
and waited for the rescuers. They skidded to the

accident, but they took too long. He didn't make it.