The steely stiff wind veers around the gray Cape Cod house, pushing the remnants of autumn against the white pickets of the neighbor’s fence. Early January Connecticut, with clouds above and long-dead grass below, is as reversely monochromatic (June 22) as the kitchen inside the house, and its explosion of colored petals and ribbons.
Kitchen counters support vases of white roses, sprays of pink lilies, and wire tripods hold baskets of mums and miniature carnations, and it makes him glad that he doesn’t have allergies because that would just add proverbial (August 8) insult to injury. Covering the length of kitchen table is the huge bouquet that cloaked the closed end of the casket last Wednesday.
Leaving the impromptu arboretum (April 16 and January 12, respectively) of the kitchen, he curls through the archway that leads to the living room. The trip is only ten strides but seems longer because he’s moved from artificial springtime to actual Christmas. The pine scent hits him hard, since it’s the seasonal opposite of the blooms he just left in the other room.
He gazes vacantly through the picture window at nothing in particular and is lost momentarily (June 24) on a smell. Not the flowers or the tree, but hers because he needs to concentrate on keeping it, knowing that eventually – would it be a month or a year, or could he hold it longer – it would leave and be gone.
He reaches for the remote and turns on the TV because what else is he supposed to do? Al Roker describes the Rose Parade, but he might as well be describing the kitchen because everything in both places is covered in vegetation (November 11) and the Grand Marshall’s Trophy winning float looks strikingly similar to the lavender tinted lilies between the refrigerator and the sink.
Sinking into his usual spot on the cool leather couch, he tries to watch the parade, but instead chooses to follow its reflection in the colored glass balls on the tree, causing the parade to take on an undertone (October 30) of red, green, and gold. At the end of the couch is the quilt she’d made – not perfect but not bad for a first try. He gathers it around him, and up under his chin, and at first he wishes he built a fire, but soon is lost again because her scent is embedded (March 14) in the blue and white squares of cloth.
A nap allows him to retreat to the days before the accident and instantaneously (April 24) they are atop the highest hill on the farm where half the town – armed with borrowed saws – appears to be selecting, and cutting down, their Christmas trees. That day, unlike this one, was clear and calm and they took time behind the occasional tree for a quick kiss or hug or both. Red cheeks and green boughs behind them, and the Douglas fir lashed to the roof of the old blue Durango, they rode downhill through town, onto the driveway, and into bed to warm up. The tree could wait.
Today, gifts still unopened are under the tree and inside the oval train track, because until now he hasn’t seen the point in opening them. Looking down at the poinsettia print wrapping paper she’d used on his presents, he pushed the quilt aside and traipsed back into the kitchen, reaching up an tapping the archway as he did, and she had playfully disliked – she wasn’t tall enough to clean fingerprints that high – every day of their married life.
He wasn’t planning on cooking so the stovetop being covered with wilting mums was of no concern. As long as he could get one of the dozen frozen lasagnas – they’d been delivered by friends and relatives to whom he could muster nothing but a distracted thank you – from the freezer to the microwave, he wouldn’t starve. At least not until February.
Later, with the month the tree and the lasagna gone, he goes about the business of going to work and working on being alone. Much of his time at home, at the firehouse, and in the car are spent in a vapid (November 2) state, and as much as he tries to engage in casual conversations, he is physically present but emotionally gone. In the past, he’d rushed into burning buildings and was always cognizant (February 7) that he needed to reemerge, but now, while still entering quickly, he lingers with the faint hope that he won’t get out. Both actions with the same result – being able to see her again.
Busying himself on Valentine’s Day he spends the afternoon cleaning, and while sweeping the kitchen, and the last few flower petals that had escaped his past efforts, he rediscovers the gold gift bag that had fallen behind the cherry wood sideboard that held the now-tarnished silver set. Using the broom handle to fish out the bag, he hikes up his jeans and reaches for it carrying it to the bedroom, placing himself gently on the edge of the bed.
Using his pocketknife, a gift to him from a woman whose husband he was ultimately unable to save, to poke through the cellophane, he unwraps the calendar and begins flipping through the pages. His birthday (February 22) was ‘despairing’ and hers (March 23) was ‘enticing’. He makes his way through other annual events and pulls out a page, folds it, and slides it in the pocket of his plaid flannel jacket and then makes a trade with the nightstand drawer – the calendar for the TV remote.
Winter to spring and then to summer people become less nurturing to him and he becomes less distant towards them. A few months of dry weather lead to more activity at work. Fewer hours in the firehouse and more time in his turnout gear he saves an elderly man and rescues a pregnant mother and feels overwhelmingly melancholy (June 17) that he wasn’t there to be a hero to his wife on that day.
Wavering for weeks – the two leading up to Thanksgiving and the few after that – he slides into the Durango intending to go get breakfast, but rather than making the right down the hill to the coffee shop he turns left up the hill towards the tree farm. Calvary Road wound him past the church they’d been married in, and that he hadn’t entered since the funeral. Tired brick chapel against dreary brown woods and set back in the grove, he slowed down to get a longer view, not excepting – but hoping – to see her, in veil and train and attached to the sunlight of their wedding day, descending the front stairs between the narrow columns.
From the top of the farm and close to the sky, surrounded by pines and firs and smiling kids, with an orange bow saw over his shoulder he tries his best to find the same spot where they stood one year prior, and when he thought he had he kneels beneath the closest tree and draws the blade against the trunk. A quick gash against the soft wood emits more of the ubiquitous (October 21) smell of pine. He forgot his gloves and the needles pierce his skin causing him to bring his fingers to his mouth, but it’s ok because the pain, regardless of how small, for the first time in a long time reminds him that he can still feel.
Although still chilly it’s warmer than last year, and he coasts down the hill towards home with the window rolled down, elbow resting on the door and wind blowing cool on his cheek. Barely audible, Bing Crosby croons carols from the radio. Passing the church, now on his left, he takes another hopeful glance and continues another mile. After a detour through the coffee shop drive thru he, his tree, and his large pumpkin spice coffee again deviate from the path homeward. Beyond his usual turn home he eases around the oak-lined bend and understands how a small red car on an icy black night could easily become attached to an invisible tree.
He shifts into park, leaves the keys in the ignition, reaches for his coffee. Circling the car he leans against the new steel guardrail that was built within an arm’s length of a rotting wood cross, plastic flowers, and laminated remembrances that have bubbled and faded over time. Slowly drawing a sip from the paper cup, he looks up at bare branches and the sky beyond and concentrates on one small spot with the belief that if he stares long enough he’d be awarded with a brief glimpse of heaven.
Finally presented with the knowledge that she’s not coming back a sense of loneliness overcomes him, and since she’s not there for a goodbye he pauses then finishes his coffee, savoring the last drop of fall on a doleful (February 20) winter day. Crushing the cup between both hands he stops himself from tossing it into the brush, and instead lifts the flap on his flannel coat pocket and slides the cup in. When his hand reaches the bottom it brushes against something that he grabs between his fingers on their way out and holding it against the sun he sees a folded piece of paper. Using both hands he opens the sheet, sees the date of their anniversary at the top, and just as his tear hits the page he sees the definition of ‘sorrow’.
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Small But Savage Books 