Ice

Your lungs protest the thin air and your throat burns as you take in a deep breath, letting it out slowly and watching as a mini cloud appears in front of you. You sniff and take in another deeper breath, holding it in as long as you can before it escapes on a sob.

You wonder if anything is worse than saying goodbye to your dad tonight. He insisted he didn’t want you to stay, insisted that he was fine on his own. “Go home with your family,” he tells you, not listening to the pleading look you’re sending his way. “I’m fine,” he says again.  

You’re not fine. Why can’t he see that? Aren’t you still his little girl? Can’t he see that you’re begging him for comfort?

But you leave because that’s what he wants.

You look past the first drops of freezing rain and wish you’d thought to bring your umbrella. An oversight, of course. Is that what the truck driver said when he ran the red light and slammed into your mother’s car as she turned into the intersection?

The wind freezes you to your bones. Winter storms hit so differently from summer twisters. You would give anything for this one to pass by. No. You would give everything for this storm to never sweep through your life. No forecast could predict the outcome. No barometer could tell you when the ice will melt from your veins.

You grip the collar of your coat tight and burrow your chin as far as it will go into the warmth of the scarf you wrapped twice around. It’s not enough, not nearly enough to keep the ice from seeping inside.

A chill wracks you as you take that first lonely step into the ruthless world. You want nothing more than to turn around and go back inside, where good food and loving arms are there to warm you. Escapism at its best.

Rain beats down hard on your shoulders and the wind kicks the taste of salt back into your face. A scream gets knotted inside your chest, but you refuse to let it out. Not here. Not now. Later, when you’re alone at home, and your daughter is sleeping soundly, you will let that scream loose, allowing the pounding rain and hot spray to drown out the sound of your grief and anger.

For now, you walk.

You walk and walk, not able to see the person watching behind you. You don’t hear their call. Not even the slick ice beneath your booted feet can stop you from wanting to leave and never return.

You feel them touch your hand. “You’ll freeze to death out here.” Good, you think, but the warm honey of their voice convinces you to let them help you to your car. You grip their strong hand through stiff gloves and refuse to let go, even to blow on your fingers, because their touch reminds you that not everything in this world is frozen.

Only when you reach the inner sanctum of your home do you finally free yourself of them, however reluctantly. The ice has numbed you. You can’t feel your fingers. You can’t feel anything at all. They kiss your cheek and walk away to feed your daughter.

You unwrap yourself from the layers of scarves, gloves, coat, and boots, hanging it all up to dry. The only thing that survived the storm were your socks and you wonder if you should light a fire. No, you’re too tired. So, you turn up the heat and tell them you’re going to take a shower. Can they put the baby to bed?

Under the pounding stream, you give in to the need to scream. Fresh and hot, the grief melts off you and you crouch down and press your cheek to the cool tile. Is that really you shrieking so helplessly?  

They enter the bathroom and help you wash and dry your hair. You slip into your warmest pajamas and wrap yourself around them tight. Tighter than necessary, but they allow it. Just this once, they say as they carry you to bed and hold you like they used to. Before, when nothing could keep you apart. Before the baby was born. Back when your mother told you that they were your rock.

You can’t go back there again. Tears soak through their shirt, but still they hold you.

Tomorrow, you’ll fight again and they’ll slam the door on their way back to their separate home, the one your mother didn’t know about because you never got around to telling her. Your daughter will turn the TV up too loud. The dog will tear up your favorite pair of boots, because he’s bored and you left them in the hall. That’s not including all the chores that need doing. Dishes, laundry, dinner. There’s more, you know, but you can’t think right now. You’ll call your friends and cry again. They’ll urge you to call a lawyer and sue the driver. Every little noise will crawl beneath your skin and drive you insane. And finally, you’ll go back to the house your parents shared for fifty years and you’ll start the painful process of boxing up your mother’s things to send to other family members and charities.

But tonight - tonight the only storm to worry about is the one tearing you to pieces inside. Tonight is for hurting.

You fall asleep and dream about the day when the storm will cease. A rainbow beams across the sky, promising the warmth of spring. You remember your mom holding an umbrella over your head. You run out from under its protection and dance and sing. Your mom laughs and tells you to come back.

One day, as a fresh spring breeze brushes your cheeks, your daughter will do the same. You’ll take out your umbrella and hold it over her head. You’ll see your mom in her smile, in the splash of water washing over her boots. You’ll look up at the colorful promise of better days and you’ll laugh in the face of the next storm passing overhead.