Hot Chocolate and A Clay Chicken

It always starts slow. A chill crawling down your spine, blossoming across your skin. A metallic sting filling your nose and reddening your cheeks. The cold snatches the leaves off the trees as frost slithers across the pavement. It sneaks into your world until it spills between your teeth and rattles your bones. Winter is here, and she does not tolerate anyone being ignorant to her arrival.

 Margie was certainly not enjoying it as she stepped out onto the empty street. Snowflakes settled into her hair in the hazy shape of a halo despite her hellish attitude. Margie was not suited for the cold, and the cold was not suited for her. Even through her numerous protests and PowerPoint presentations, Margie’s parents insisted on living in the rural north where it drops 30 degrees in a single day instead of… well, anywhere else. Margie thought it was actually quite selfish of her parents to not move their entire lives to make their daughter more comfortable. She was going off to college soon. Shouldn't they want to do things she would want to do? Nevertheless, Margie shoved her hands into her coat pockets to fend off the cold creeping into her cheap gloves. If Margie is not too careful, the cold will wrap around her finger until it falls off. 

Margie wasn’t always so bitter about the wintertime. She used to be in love with winter. Memories stretched on endlessly of throwing snow or drinking hot chocolate or skating on the lake with her friends. She had so many friends, and she loved them more than anything. There were moments of pure bliss when everyone around her never stopped smiling or singing. Their voices ring in her ear as the snow quiets the world around her. What she wouldn’t give to have it all back.

But life moved on and so did everyone else. They moved towns, got new friends or left for college early and never looked back. Winters became isolating. The singing stopped and so did ice skating. The cold seeped under Margie’s skin and it never left. Her blood became ice that scratched her from the inside out. She wished she knew the cure.

Margie tilted her head towards the sky and projected her thoughts to the clouds as if they might have an answer. The only answer she received is the wind pinching her cheek and ruffling her hair. She closed her eyes as snowflakes kissed her brow. 

“Are you trying to listen for the sound of reindeer? I'm afraid you’re too early, dear.” Came a voice. Margie opened her eyes and looked at the owner. Her neighbor.

“I’m too old for Santa, Mrs. Knotts.”

“No one is too old for a little imagination.” Mrs. Knotts replied. “I would know.”

Margie was tempted to roll her eyes but thought better of it. “I'm not saying I'm too old for a little imagination, but I figured out who Santa really was when I was eight. I don’t see the point in playing in the game anymore.”

“You kids.” Mrs. Knotts retorted. “Then what were you doing?”

“Taking a walk into town.”

“How do you feel about postponing your walk to help me shovel this cursed driveway?”

“Can’t Mr. Knotts help you?” Margie inquired, and Mrs. Knotts stared at the ground as if lost in thought, but she quickly wiped the expression off her face and smiled. 

“Eliot won’t be home for a while now, but that does remind me of a time a few years ago…” 

Margie sighed and grabbed the second shovel. Her arms trembled as she scooped the snow and tossed it to the side of the pavement. Mrs. Knotts was in the middle of telling a story of her husband, but Margie became lost in her thoughts (as she often does). Her mind wandered to college. Maybe it will be better. She could meet new people and have a fresh start. That's what college was supposed to be for anyway. Well, that and an education, but Margie had no idea what she wanted to do with her life. She had interests in design, and she loved music, sure, but she wasn’t sure she could do any of those as a career. Who knew growing up could be so confusing. It seemed so easy as a kid. It seemed like everyone knew what they were doing, and they had people to help them. What a lie. 

Break time came when a car could at least pull into the driveway but there were still a couple inches covering the pavement. Mrs. Knotts invited Margie into the house for some hot cocoa and more stories (probably about her husband). The interior of the house was cozy and covered in memorabilia. Pictures of kids and school and sporting events hung along the walls, and a couple picture frames of a wedding and a happy couple had been placed on every hard surface. Homemade art projects were scattered throughout the living room and on the counters of the kitchen. Margie picked up a funky looking clay chicken. It was purple with a misshapen beak and a misfortunate placement of eyes. She turned it over to see the initials G.T carved on the bottom. Margie remembered these kinds of projects from the seventh grade. Her parents threw hers out a long time ago. 

“My grandson’s.” Mrs. Knotts said. Margie looked up at her and put the chicken back down. Though there were already two mugs sitting out, Mrs. Knotts pulled out a third one and set a pot full of milk on the stovetop. “My daughter liked to send them each year he made one.”

Margie looked along the counter and noticed a line of 6 weird clay sculptures. One for every year if she had to guess. The first two were farm animals: a blue sheep with a big head and purple dots, and the chicken she had picked up. The next one was a giant squid with a small boat in one of its tentacles. The last three were… sad. Less colorful and imaginative. More realistic. There was a bunny, a tree shaped like the one in the backyard, and a blue car. They were masterfully painted and something you would find in an antique store, but without the charm of the ones preceding them. 

“Why did she stop sending them?” Margie asked as she inspected the car.

“Because Georgie stopped making them.”

“Oh, did he go off to college? I feel like my parents can’t wait to ship me off.” Margie joked. Mrs. Knotts gave her a sad look. “Not really, though. I’m sure they’re just excited to have their freedom again.”

“I felt the opposite when my Caroline went off to be on her own. I wanted to be there when she stumbled, but my husband reassured me she would be fine.” Mrs. Knotts stared at the mugs as she scooped cocoa powder into both of them and poured the milk to just below the rim. “But, no, that's not why he stopped making them.”

“Then why?”

“Because my husband died. He was too devastated.” Margie almost spit out her hot chocolate. “Have you not been listening to me?”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. When I said- I didn't mean to assume-” Margie paused, horrified. Her mind ran a thousand miles per hour thinking of how to properly apologize. She remembered hearing about the death of someone on the street last year, but she didn’t know them. She thought she had other things in her personal life to worry about. She was too busy being in her head to notice the pain Mrs. Knotts was going through. And if she had to guess by the way Mrs. Knotts was staring at that third mug, the loneliness.  

“It’s alright, dear. You know, I used to hate putting these little clay sculptures in such an obvious place. It’s not that I hated them necessarily, but I thought such silly things like that didn’t go well with the sugar jar or with the marble and I had to move them all the time when I was making dinner.” Mrs. Knotts sighs. “But my husband insisted they go on the countertops for all to see. He was so proud of Georgie, you see. He was always going on about how talented his grandson is and telling my daughter Georgie should pursue pottery or art. When I first lost Harold, I couldn’t bear to look at them. Now, some days I cannot bear to look away from them. Every time I look at them, I can hear his voice telling me, ‘They need to stay here. Look at how well Georgie painted them. Look at the colors.’ He loved being a grandfather.” Tears began to well in her eyes.

“You really miss him.”

“I do, but I would do it all over again. He loved me very much and we had a wonderful life together. There wasn’t anything more I could ask for.”

Margie could not imagine losing someone like that. That kind of cold. That kind of sadness. How foolish it was to be so wrapped up in her own world. She guessed everyone carried their own pain and they carried it in different ways. Though Mrs. Knotts lost someone she loved very much, she could still smile and talk about him as if he were still here. Their love is still shining even though one is gone. Margie had grown apart from her own friends, and she has been carrying that loneliness ever since. But maybe it was time to let it go. She lost her friends, but she could make a new one right here. She could find someone to warm her from the cold and warm them in turn. 

Margie could never replace the love Mrs. Knotts lost, but she could offer Mrs. Knotts some comfort in the form of company. 

“Could you tell me some more stories about your husband?”

“I would love to.”