Solstice to Solace

JANUARY:

The gentle laugh of a young girl filled with the frostbitten air. A Father stared in awe from the front window, watching his daughter assemble clusters of compacted snow, placing it against the forming-bottom half of a snowman. Fred Sanders typed away at his desk, pertaining to his work duties; he was fortunate to be able to work-from-home, having the ability to witness his daughter enjoying the youth’s contagious vivacity of a snow day. Daisy, his daughter, was swaddled head-to-toe in her waterproof attire, while an enormous-knit cap nearly covered the entirety of her imploring-hazel eyes. Momentarily, she would pause, and within his head he could hear her labored breaths before she licked the moisture from her upper-lip compulsively. He could acknowledge her looking over into his direction, spotting the reflection of his reading glasses bouncing from the blinding-sun’s engagement, ushered by the whitewashed grounds of Winter’s lovechild. 

Burlington, Vermont, was a breeding ground for Winter endeavors, as the snow fell continuously by the foot throughout the season. It was very rare to hear the pitter of rain against the metal roof during, and the chimney’s exhaled great clouds of oak and maple as a Family sat contently around the popping embers that warmed their very bones.

The afternoon was reaching out towards the evening and the sun had become drowsy, yearning to fall beneath the horizon. Fred finished what was left of his final report for the day before he sent his final email to his boss, closing his laptop emphatically at the conclusion. Fred hurried towards the front door, peeking his head out into the frigid air. “Daisy, it’s almost time to come in! It’s going to be dark shortly.” He instantly noticed her head swivel around the torso of the snowman, with a look of disappointment strewn across her innocent face.

“Ten more minutes dad, please! I just need to finish the nose.” She pleaded, immediately pouting her lip to impale deep into the heart of her Father.

“Okay, ten more minutes; but after that, you’re coming in.” Fred was just about to shut the door before he heard his Daughter once more.

“Dad! what can I use for a nose?” Daisy once again licked the moisture from her top lip, followed by a sniffle.

Fred pondered the question for a moment, looking around the outside environment for a helping hand. There, he saw the row of Eastern White Pines, which separated his home’s property boundary from the ones on either end, expanding all the way towards the street. “Use one of the pine cones, hunny. There’s a few at the end there, just please watch the street. Ten minutes!” He smiled towards his daughter, then gently shut the door. He could hear her laughter soar past the boundaries of the door’s insulation, painting the walls with her enlivened spirits. “Little rascal… Always gets me.” Fred smirked, walking towards the kitchen to begin dinner. When he reached the kitchen, he contemplated what he would put together for Daisy and himself, as his wife, Carrie, wouldn’t be home until late. Carrie was a nurse at the local hospital. “Do we have any chicken?" And before he could finish his thought, a universally-alarming screech could be heard, followed by a substantial collision into an object. Fred’s heart nearly sank, and he immediately rushed towards the front door in a complete state of panic, barreling out into the snow in just his slippers and indoor attire. “Daisy?!” he shouted through the air, his desperation carried within the palpable breath that dispersed through the sub-temperature. “DAISY!” The pang could be heard within the tone of his disconsolate voice, followed by the heart-rending wails only produced by a man in utter dejection. A crimson trickle would canal through the dense snowfall, pushing forth a barge of death that carried perversion within its angelic innocence.

FEBRUARY:

Fred awoke in the morning, and underneath his eyes, heavy bags filled with immense pain showed in the form of a purple hue. A neglected stubble had seized his once-youthful flesh; a pile of clothes lay near the edge of his unmade bed; the dishes piled into porcelain pillars within the sink’s basin. He slid into his slippers reluctantly, trudging towards the living room where his desk was positioned near the aforementioned window. He would lift his laptop screen, poking at the keys until he was within his profile, and stared aimlessly at the fluorescence of the blue light shining against his distraught face. Immediately, he would feel the gravity of something beckoning for his attention—a persistent calling for his eyes. Timorously he would crane his neck, looking out towards the front yard: he was looking at the face of a noseless snowman. And as it would happen every morning, tears would begin to swell from his crestfallen eyes—the lasting memory of his daughter, trapped within the frozen exoskeleton of this lopsided creation. It had bits and pieces—rather extensions—of his daughter’s personality: the winter hat which was hers; the purple scarf wrapped around the neck; a few-spare buttons she had collected throughout her bedroom. The twigs, which were the arms, always greeted Fred with a welcoming wave, entreating him to come and visit this effigy; however, the Winter, once a metaphor for purity and familial bonding, was now tainted by the permanent blemish of death.

Fred was well aware that he could reposition his desk towards the rear of the home, or within one of the spare bedrooms on the third-floor; but truthfully, he felt it necessary to dwell within the permafrost of pain that embedded deep within the desolate field which was his heart. Somehow, he knew that this snowman was what was left of Daisy’s final memory, and his psyche couldn’t detach from this very sentiment that had been created during such emotional duress. And just as the sun would fully rise, using its rays to combat the tundra which was Northern Vermont during its barren plight—well after the piles of discarded red, greens, and yellows of the tourist-ridden Fall season had slowly composted into nourishing sediment—Fred would feel an immediate sense of trepidation. He would stomp through the accumulated snow of the front yard, maniacally collecting armfuls with an attempt to salvage the month-old figure in a perplexed state. Concerned neighbors would watch from the protections of their home, looking worrisome at their significant others, expressing their hopes for his emotional recovery.

Fred would return to his desk, his hands and feet a shade of bright red from their exposure to the elements, and there he would grieve inconsolably, shouting his detestation to the ceiling in hopes for some omnipresent answer. 

MARCH:

“It’s good we’re going out to dinner—we need to get back out into the public, Fred.” Carrie spoke softly to her husband with a lovingly-positioned hand against his right shoulder. The car droned along the dark roads, and Fred’s periphery would catch subtle glimpses of passing headlights, causing his attention span to snap back into the moment.

“Oh yes, I.. I agree, this will be good for us.” Fred turned towards his wife and produced some assemblage of a smile.

Of course Carrie was distraught at the loss of her daughter; though, through her experience, she was much more equipped at compartmentalizing the pain—a skill she had developed from her nursing career. She spoke in a jovial manner, to lighten the mood: “Plus, when’s the last time you had a good steak? You deserve it, hun.”

When they took their seats at the reserved table, Fred smoothed the tablecloth, bashfully surveying the restaurant’s limit. “It’s been a while since we’ve been here.” He acknowledged only the two-seats at the table, recollecting their last visit with the entirety of the Family. He watched the white-aproned waiters, being projected violently out into the impatient public, the noticeable sweat beginning to accumulate around their flustered brow. The clamor of the restaurant would temporarily assuage Fred’s despair, and he began to show signs of vitality to his concerned wife. Their conversation, though mundane, found solace within the simplicity of work problems and overbearing coworkers. Unfortunately, this stretch of, well..distraction, would be unexpectedly interrupted by the impaling laugh of a small child; consequently, this would return Fred behind the prodigious walls he usually sheltered behind, once in a while gracing the parapet for a glimpse of the fleeting future that he once was destined for.

Every moment of happiness bred guilt, as Fred felt undeserving of such humanity. This albatross hung high above with a judgmental eye, and within every interaction it flapped its wings mockingly, to remind him of his strife. The crying of the tragedy’s inception had transitioned into blank stares. His eyes shone like dormant, twilight waters: though still, they were chasmic, consumed by beasts that would swallow man whole.

There would be evenings Fred would linger by the threshold of Daisy's bedroom, afraid to breach the unscathed museum that displayed random assortments of toys and bright accents. It was not enormous dinosaur bones that caught this spectators eye; it was Barbies, teddy bears, and pieces of paper with a stick family drawn upon them. Fred felt if he reached his hand through the force field that physically forbade his entrance, he would somehow transport into the past; but on the other hand, he also feared that if this miracle would not happen, he would forever taint what was suspended in time.

APRIL:

The Winter was waning: Vermont was being pulled between the harsh, Canadian-jet streams, and the relieving thaw of Spring’s emerald luster. The clutter that had recently become staple inside of Fred's home was now neatly assembled back into their respective places. A hint of vigor had become noticeable within his stride, while his work ethic had roared towards the speed he had possessed prior to the accident. Healing was settling within his lacerated heart; Fred understood, just as every human would during such devastation, that time was the only effective tourniquet to the weeping artery that caused such pain. He had made amends with himself after these past-three months, working through the reality that he could not manipulate what had been; that while he could mourn the loss of his daughter, he couldn’t go on carrying the burden of such. And each time that notion would creep back into his forethought, he would revisit his daughter’s imploring eyes: rich with delicate greens and golden accents that mimicked lighting strikes through a mystical forest. They alone would propel him forth into that bright future that used to recede each time he'd cast his eyes upon it, once on a futile search for semblance through a haunted window that distorted his motivation for life’s continuity. 

Now outside he stood, face-to-face with the dwindling snowman, which too had persevered alongside Fred’s adversity. The hat and scarf clung haphazardly to what was left of his shrunken head and torso, and the arms slouched against the weight of gravity. Fred turned towards the street, near the row of pines once again: a small collection still rested underneath their dripping boughs. He walked gingerly towards the grouping, taking a moment, then picking a sturdy one from the pile. Upon returning to the snowman, he smiled at its noseless face; then, he pressed the pine cone towards the center, completing the melting countenance. This action, though effortless, was an enormous leap forward towards the stability Fred sought these enduring months. The snowman, even as he withered, remained effusive through his remaining days; and Fred looked upon him now, ready to let go. Suddenly, Fred felt the gentle pulse of raindrops hitting his shoulder, then his head, and lastly his hands. A sudden downpour erupted from the sky, and slowly the remains of the snowman eased into a finite mass: all that remained were the hat, scarf, and pine cone. Fred looked towards the sky, to which the sun remained transfixed upon his person through the squall; he smiled endearingly, in attestation to the light once again enriching his spirits.

”I love you, Daisy.”