SNOWFALL

Jane watched the snow dance from her bedroom window. The unpredictable weather was something she loved about this mountain town.  Just yesterday, the air had been crisp with Autumn and redolent with the smell of burning leaves. She planned a trip to view the changing foliage. For the past two weeks, she had been busy painting and unpacking, sending change of address postcards, and forwarding her magazines. She hadn't listened to the radio or watched the news in days. The snow was a lovely surprise.

The alarm on her phone blared, startling her out of her reverie. "Mandatory evacuations." . . . . moving fast" . . . ."winds gusting” . . . "leave now"

A wildfire. The snow was grey. She hadn't noticed. The phone blared again and jolted Jane into movement. 

Where was her purse, her license, her birth certificate, her passport? She didn’t know. She hadn’t finished organizing her tiny office. Where were the photo albums, the pictures of her parents?   She searched her frightened brain. She remembered where everything was in the old house, every outlet and carpet stain. She had left that house to turn a new page, create a new chapter. Now she didn’t know where anything was. Her body shuddered with a wave of terror. As she turned to go, she stumbled over the last unpacked box. She had carried this box in the car, not trusting the panting, sweaty hulks who had tossed her belongings into the moving truck like yesterday’s trash.

This box held the clay pinch pots and oddly shaped vases made by her two children, things she couldn’t bring herself to part with. She kept these masterpieces to hold the odd thing, like paperclips and rubber bands. When her kids were little, she had saved every piece of art, every certificate, and essay. She dutifully labeled bins and stored their treasures for the eventual move to grown-up homes. When the time came, her children had not been interested in these carefully preserved riches, and she had been sadly disappointed. This box also contained twenty-five teacher gifts, one memento from each year.  Gifts given by pudgy hands and squeaky voices blurting, "Have a good summer, Mrs. Simon," before rushing out to meet unfettered freedom.

Jane felt thankful to have finished with all of that, and her brow furrowed with guilt.  The better part of her life had been spent with children, her own, and other peoples. Her bucket list was full of travel, museums, classes, and outings. And of course, there was her reading list. She was giddy at the prospect of diving into all of it.

 She was also thankful to have left her marriage behind, but she certainly didn't feel guilt. She had been a single parent without being a single parent. The distance and monotony had frayed her to a slip of a woman, and she was glad to be shed of him. She spent months researching areas with the lowest crime rates and the most scenic small towns. She cashed in her retirement package, loaded her sensible compact car, and blew that popsicle stand, as her youngest would say. She was empowered by her decision and confident in her ability to create a new life for herself. Her money had purchased this compact condo, no cosigner, no baggage.

Jane stuffed the box under her arm in a desperate need to take something, anything.  Miraculously, her keys and purse were where she thought she had left them. She entered the living room like a sleepwalker where bright blues, saturated reds, and sunny yellows jerked her awake.  She had decorated with purpose, choosing each color and each piece of art to evoke joy and contentment. She read feng shui books, shopped at Ikea, and studied folk art. She planned to spend the remainder of her days here and was determined to get the most out of every minute; No more beige and tan, no more Naugahyde, or faux wood paneling. Upstairs was a spare bedroom of pale mint and gray, restful colors for her children when they came to visit. She made sure they would come by choosing a location with nearby adventure activities to draw them out and amuse their children.  They would come to ski or white-water raft, dual-purpose trips for vacation and visit, not the other way around. That was okay with her, as long as they came.

Now the happy room brought a cloud of melancholy, but she pushed it aside by making a mental list. Lists were her anchors, keeping her organized and productive. Today's to-do list had was made in the wee hours of the morning.

Choose a church to visit. She wasn't particularly religious, but for 'women of a certain age,' there were limited places to meet people: research volunteer opportunities, preferably outdoors, nothing with children or senior citizens. Buy a bike, a cruiser with a basket to pedal to the market, something she had always wanted to do. Locate a book store. Better yet, a used book store. The tattered covers and dog-eared pages made her feel connected to other bibliophiles. Select a bank. For the first time in thirty-five years, she would have a bank account with just her name, not a joint account. No one to see how much money had, monitor her spending or criticize her choices. She would sign up for online bill pay and paperless billing. Register for beginner yoga at the quaint-looking studio on the corner.

Now she started a new list. Open the door. Get in the car. Turn the key. Try not to panic. Do not cry.

From the picture window, she saw neighbors she hadn't yet met loading cars with cases of water and small animal kennels. Adults, children, and dogs crammed into vehicles hastily packed with suitcases and family heirlooms. Where were her heirlooms? Her stomach lurched, and she thought she might vomit. 

The street was buzzing with strangers. Some were frantic, their faces pinched with anxiety; others were calm as if this was old news they'd read before. Jane turned off the lights and locked the front door, wondering at the irony. Clouds of dust swirled in the wake of fleeing vehicles. She slid behind the wheel of her car, ash drifting from her hair and shoulders. The smoke caused a dull ache to begin in her temples. Her heartbeat, a manic rhythm inside her chest, urging her to move. A violent, unexpected sob erupted from her thin frame, and tears began to leak down her pallid cheeks. She slid her sensible car into the procession, another wildfire refugee.