Why I Loved Winter

People say the heat suffocates, but I say the cold does more because each breath hurts my lungs terribly, causing me apprehension towards taking normal length breaths. 

The cold succeeds at being very annoying in the fact that, unless you reach hypothermia, your fingers and toes are not yet fully numb, only mostly. Only mostly numb, meaning it still burns (there are those heat descriptions again) each time you touch something or move a muscle. For example, right now, as I reach my hand into my pocket to grab my flashlight, all my fingers sting individually. The earth around me is overlaid in a pristine cotton blanket. I kick the fluffy yet thick, beautiful pure white snow as I walk, and it flies with each step and dances around my boots before it falls back to the earth, like tiny, spinning ballerinas. The falling snow is beautiful and elegant, and I understand why it's a universal feeling to be so relaxed when watching it cascading down. I take a break from my forest walk and go to a standstill. Like I did as a young boy, I stick my tongue out to catch a snowflake on it. It lands on my tongue with ephemeral passion and sweetness, before it dissolves into pure water. I love all things pure. I shake, both from the cold and from giddy happiness. I don’t exactly want to be outside right now, so enjoying it while I am here is all I can do. My finger burns once more as I press the on button on the flashlight. It is not exactly dark yet outside, but it never hurts to have a bit of help when searching for something in the snow, right? Especially because the cold keeps the world so silent. I cannot hear anything right now, except the occasional lump of snow falling off a nearby tree and the slight hush of the chilled, iced wind. I definitely need all the help I can get. The cold is working against me, but only in this aspect. It also means that what I am looking for probably can't go too far either. Right? I need some reassurance. 

The thing with this specific cold, is that it seeps through layers, into your skin and blood, and you can almost feel the chill swimming in your brain. As a kid, I used to be able to smell the first snowfall before it came. If you have ever lived in a city that gets snow, you must know exactly what I mean. But ever since I purchased this cabin in the mountains, I don’t need to guess when it will snow, because it always is. I really miss the winter as a child. Growing up, the winter was definitely less cold than it is here in the mountains, but it was just filled with such nice memories, you know? 

Now, I don't want to play the victim, but I really do not want to be out here right now. I would much rather be smelling my pine candles indoors than the pine outside. I am much more of an indoor person. I want to go back to my lounge chair in my cabin, sitting by the fire, having hot chocolate with little marshmallows like I did as a kid, tasting the creamy deliciousness that warms my throat, as I was before the interruption. And I am really annoyed because I was getting to a really good part of my book. I almost wish I didn’t look up and see her running outside, because then I would have finished my chapter. Now she doesn’t get to eat dinner either, that is if I do not find her. Because of her, I had to get up, put on this heavy but practical jacket, my cashmere scarf, my toque, trade my cosy slippers for my snow boots, and go outside. In hindsight, if I hadn’t spent so long putting on my layers and just ran out in what I was wearing, I probably would have found her right away, but now that's neither here nor there. It’s really not my fault.

As I continue to walk in the snow, I keep that memory of fire inside in my head. Mentally I am toasting my hands by the flames, keeping me warm in these cold, trying times.

I don’t know why she chose tonight to try to leave my cabin in the mountains. Is it because it's Christmas Eve? And why did she try to leave at all? I rent this cabin out in the summer, and people pay good money to stay here. It seems a waste that she’s trying to leave before I’d let her go.

I come in the winter because it reminds of of my winters as a child. My apartment in the city feels so cold and impersonal. Mother and father said they bought it for me so they could have their space in the winter, but I know they are joking, and are just generous.

It was lonely here, so that's why, for the past few years, I have been taking women up with me. Of course, I know how that sounds, but I am a really good guy. I don’t touch them at all. I am so not a creep. I give them their own room and everything, feed them whatever they want, let them be alone if they want to be. All I do is talk to them, you know. I really make the place atmospheric for them. I get a nice big real Christmas tree, and I let them watch as I decorate it with lights and ornaments. Of course, I’d let them help, I know how much fun it is, but they get a little tied up, if you know what I mean. I do let them unwrap the presents though, just keeping their ankles tied instead. I had such a fun night planned for today. I was going to sing Christmas carols, play with some toys, and I was going to pop a turkey in the oven. It was going to be a surprise. I got her a sapphire stone necklace to match her blue eyes. I noticed how bright they were when I spotted her at the coffee shop a month back. She talked really vividly and brightly to her friends, and that made me think we would be enjoying a really good conversation together here, but maybe she’s shy with me? She doesn’t seem to want to talk.

The cold bites me and taunts me with each step I take. The falling snow gets thicker as I trudge, causing my vision to get worse. Right now, I am following her footprints, but if the snow thickness keeps up, soon I’m going to lose track of her. I sniff, thinking maybe I can smell her. I put her in a really expensive perfume this evening. Something that smells of cherry, woods, and vanilla. But I can’t, the air is too clear.

I’m beginning to lose hope. I’m starting to think I may have to spend Christmas alone, which I can’t do. That would be very embarrassing. And sad? 

As I become more paranoid of losing her, I suddenly hear a cry, only coming a few feet away. I run to my right, frantically looking for her.

I see the light pink wool of her hat before I see her lying in the snow. I gave her the hat because the house can get nippy, but other than that, the only things she is wearing are her jeans and a thin black sweater. She’s definitely not wearing warm enough clothes to go wandering in the mountain woods in winter, and definitely not enough to be lying in the snow. It appears a lump of snow fell on her. I was going to put her in a red velvet dress for the holiday tonight. Similar to one my sister used to wear during the holidays when we were young. It’s not a thick layer of snow on top of her, it's thin, and she could easily have gotten up before I arrived, but I guess she was waiting for me to help her up. Once I remove all the snow from her face, she gasps when she sees me. Delicate, crystal flakes fall on her bluish lips and some are already resting on her lashes. The fear in her eyes - the poor thing! For one second, that look, the fright in her pupils, reminded me of my very own sister. I miss her.

“Family is very important,” I tell her (her name has split my mind), as I lift up one of her arms from the ground. It is stiff and solid. Now her expression changes to a look of confusion, one eyebrow going up, which confuses me, because what is so confusing about what I just said? I stand her up, and she tries to run a bit, but she trips, and when she gets back up, I put my arm back around her. She tries to loosen from my grip, takes a look at the white snow, the milky sky, the cliffs, the regal trees, and back to me.

“Why don’t we go back into the cabin, and make us a nice warm dinner like I used to eat with my family.”

She made it quite far down the mountain, and the walk back would take a while, so I started humming some songs. She starts to cry, and, even through my gloved hand, I could feel how cold her tears were when I wiped them away.

“The holidays make me quite emotional too,” I mention. I hope that gives her some comfort in her tears.

We trudge on uphill, and even though it has not gotten any warmer outside, she is sweating in her single layer. 

Inside, I sit her down by the fire, get some warmer clothing for her, and tie her to the chair to ensure her safety. I don’t want her catching a cold if she runs back outside again. They can be deadly. She looks so pretty sitting there, just like my sister used to, don't you think? I guess you never met my sister. Or my parents, for that matter. As she sits and relaxes (hopefully relaxes, because she is quite high strung), she shivers and sweats still, and keeps her sparkling blue eyes on me while I am in the kitchen. As I cut the onions, I notice her pleading, helpless look. Maybe she misses her family too. I know what to do. I leave the room and come back with a little porcelain doll. It has glassy, dazed and dreamlike eyes, just like hers (I still cannot remember her name. Shelly? Katy?). The doll, who’s name I do remember as Ruthie, is clothed in a red dress with blue Mary Janes and her hair in a braid. I place the doll on her lap, hoping it would provide some comfort to her. It looks just like her, who happens to look just like my sister when she was young. Of course, my sister stayed young forever. 

“Young forever,” I say out loud and chuckle. I give her a glass of whisky. I think she may be too young to drink, though.

I go back to the kitchen and continue cooking and preparing foods. The smells are quite strong, so I light some more of the pine candles and place one by her. It’s warm here, but it's not pleasantly snug now that it's getting late, so I head into my room for a nice quilt blanket that I will bring out to her. In the room, I’m searching the closet for a specific one Mother made for me and my sister. It was the one thing my mother ever made for us, not bought. I sniff it. 

I hear a crash. I run out back into the main room and first look at the door, expecting her to have run out again, but she hadn’t. She is just sitting in the chair.

“What happened? Are you okay?” I ask her.

She says nothing, as usual.

“Are you okay?” I repeat. 

“Why do you care?” She spits at me. I am quite taken aback. 

“Because I love you. We are like each others family right now. You have nobody, and neither do I.” 

“Why do you think I don’t?” She growls at me as she says this. 

“Because you told your friends how much you hate spending the holidays alone. How you wish you had parents in the country to be with, and how you are always single. Now I cannot be your boyfriend, because frankly, I only see you as a sister. A pure kind of love. Pure like the snow.” I am giddy, I am not sure why. 

She looks at me with disgust, and I almost want to cry, but then she bursts out laughing, and that hurts even more.

“I’ve known since the day you kidnapped me that this was about family. You made that very obvious. What you didn’t make clear is why they are not with you?”

“Kidnapped?”

“Yes.”

“You came with me willingly,” I state.

“Because you were crying and holding a knife.” 

I like this quick banter we have going on. Very sibling-like. I continue it.

“She died. But It was an accident,” I say very quickly. 

“Who died?”

“Tara.”

“Was she another girl you kidnapped? Did you kill her?”

“No, she was my sister,” I cry out. Giddy and nervous.

“Your sister? Did you kill her?”

“Of course not.”

“Then how did she die?” the girl asks. She is shaking a bit, but not with cold, but with anger.

“She fell off our home balcony.”

“How?”

“Some say I pushed her, but who knows. I know. I am going back to cooking now.” I leave her to sit. She stares at me while I boil the water.

“Your family hates you now, don’t they?”

“No.” I mix some sauce in a pan.

“Yes, they know what you did, and they can’t look at you the same now.”

“No.”

“Look,” she says. “I am really, really sorry for whatever happened to your sister. The reason I’m so sad being alone on the holidays is because I lost my boyfriend. It really is awful losing someone…even your living family can push you away. I understand that. I want to be there for you. Why don’t you untie me, and we can play scrabble.”

Her blue eyes spark a little bit. You’re probably thinking, ‘he’s so dumb, why would he untie her?’ But I untie her for the game. I trust her. She gets up, reaches on the coffee table for the scrabble box, and asks me to toss her the blanket. I bend over to get it, and hear a crash again. She has knocked over the candles. Four of them, and the fire is spreading quickly. 

We stare at each other now. 

“I am sorry, like I said. But I am not your sister,” she says to me in a deep voice, as the flames burn around her, not touching her. “I’m sorry,” she whispers again, as she dumps the whisky on me, and throws another candle on me. I start to burn, the second time I feel a burn today. I see her run to my jacket, thinking my car keys are in there. They are. Another thing that you must think is stupid about me. But really, she is like my sister, and I trusted my sister.

“Tara,” I called her.

“I am not Tara. I am Jacqueline, I am not related to you, and I am leaving you here. I am not alone, but you are. And you will die alone.”

So that's her name, Jacqueline. This whole time it never occurred to me that the girl may have a whole life that didn’t involve the brief facts I knew about her from overhearing her talk one time. I still didn’t know what that life is, but maybe if I knew her more I would have been able to sympathise with her more, maybe I could have chosen another girl, one who still reminded me of my younger days. But, due to the fact that I am burning alive, that thought is very brief, and she goes back to being a flat character, a filler, a stand-in for my Tara. My mother would hate this mess, and this is one that father cannot send money to fix. Flames reflect in the girl’s eyes as she watches me suffer for a few seconds, then with another look of disgust she runs out the door. 

I had more to say to her. Maybe if she just let me explain, we could have talked more. I could have told her about my life, we could have played scrabble and watched movies and ate cookies and cocoa and anything. I knew cocoa alone was fine, I should never have given her whiskey.

I can't move. I always thought when you’re on fire you can move, so why can’t I move? The flames move up my body, and I smell my flesh burning, mixing in with the scent of pine.

 If I am on fire, then why am I so frozen. I am suffocating again. 

What do I love about winter? The same as everyone else. The crisp air, the scents of wood and the flames burning, and most of all, I love being with my family.