A Winter Night

I remember everything that happened. It was one of the last days of January, about nine months ago. It was one of those days when the snow has conquered the landscape and the trees are preparing to awake after many months. You could feel nature preparing to wake up from hibernation. I remember everything. The partially iced lake, the snow, the forest scent. The campfire, her beautiful braid and the sunset. The only living being we were able to see that day was a beautiful deer who, for a brief moment, glanced at us among the pines and the dead trees. But, above all, I recall the feeling of that day. The feeling of being with someone so meaningful can make you delightfully fragile. When sunset ended and the night came, it became particularly cold. We walked into our small house. We wanted to dance quietly through the night. After a brief negotiation, I ran my hand through the old records. As dust fell from the shelves, I noticed an old copy of Tchaikovsky’s “The Nutcracker” that we bought at least seven years before that night, when we were still two young college students in love. As soon as the needle gently touched the surface of the record, no more words were spoken that night. And we danced. We danced as if nothing could stop us from dancing. When “Waltz of the Flowers” arrived, her smile was so incredibly delicate and confident. Her hand was graciously united with mine. It was an unforgettable cold, winter night.

           Around nine months have passed since that day. Like every morning, before going to work I visited her for two hours until nine in the morning. When I finished at work, I normally stayed with her until ten in the evening, but sometimes I stayed with her until midnight when one of the nurses would kindly ask to leave. We always had dinner together, and I often tried multiple times to bring her “prohibited foods”, without having much success. She loved Christmas cookies. We talked about our days and everything else. We laughed a lot, but sometimes, when we recalled our memories spent at home or around the world, we also cried. She cried more frequently than I did. During a particular night, we were able to see the stars from her window, and I promised her that when she would have left the hospital, we would have flown to Norway to see the northern lights together. One of those mornings, I left the house earlier and bought her some flowers for our anniversary. When I arrived at the hospital, she was still sleeping. Despite those white sheets, I was able to see the dark blue dress that she wore that night. I placed my hand on hers and it felt exactly as it did that night, nine months ago. A nurse calmly entered the room to control her health conditions.

           When I left that evening, I was been told to come and visit her the next morning, as usual. I have to confess that I was particularly calm that day. One could say I was even a little joyful. I wished I could have stayed there with her during the night, but it was not permitted. As I drove to work the following day, after having been with her for two hours, it started to rain. Suddenly, I was called by the hospital. “Mr. van Herrmann, you have to come back here as fast as you can. You have to run like hell.” said a woman with a tearful voice. Time stopped for a long, intense moment. I pressed the accelerator as if my life depended on it. I overtook one car. And another one. I could feel my heart rate was getting faster and faster. Another one. I started breathing more heavily. My legs were shaking. Another one. My body wanted to scream, but I was unable to do so. Another one. And another one. The air became impossible to breathe. It was extremely dry. Then I suddenly hit the break. I looked that mother in the eye, while her small daughter started to cry desperately. If I would have stopped one second later, I would have probably run over them. My run resumed instantly, despite the chaos I left behind. When I finally arrived at the hospital, she was already moved to the emergency room. Time felt as if it was slowing down every second. Every second was a minute away from the next one. And every minute was an hour away from the next one.

He lost contact with the real world and then passed out. When he woke up the following day, it was still raining. He was not truly able to realize what happened the previous day. When he left the hospital later that day, the cold air pervaded his lungs. While driving home, the rain was lessening. The clouds coloured the sky, and the snow was still the main character of the landscape. He was not able to be present in the real world: he never left that hospital. When he parked outside their house, before entering, he looked back into the forest and saw a weak ray of sunshine through the pines and the dead trees. The lake had a similar appearance as it did nine months before. He opened the door. He stopped for a moment, looking at the old, dusty record player. He looked for that Tchaikovsky record, and when he found it, one could say he almost cuddled it, to bring a memory back to reality. He saw her dancing in the living room, with that delicate but confident smile. He headed towards the garage and opened a metal drawer. He started to hear the peaceful laugh that she had when dancing with him, and he started to laugh too. Tears were falling from his eyes. But before pulling the trigger, he felt her hand, graciously united with his. He saw them watching the northern lights together, having dinner at the hospital, laughing at their jokes and crying when recalling old memories. He saw them dancing in their house. And then he never saw them again.