Stories from the Jukebox, Week #20
The Thaw
Alone for Christmas. Again. Amy knew that it was her own fault, but she couldn’t help feeling sorry for herself. The sharp bite of the cold north wind; the daylight fading into a deeper, darker night by 4:00 PM; the slippery ice, the blinding snow, the wet slush sliding into her boots to soak her socks every time she headed outdoors. The hellish weather never failed to worsen the ever present depression. Even if she’d been lucky enough to find someone earlier in the year, they would have fled by now, for her frozen heart always lashed out with the coming of the first flakes of winter, chasing away anyone who tried to get close enough to thaw her soul.
Alone. It’s better this way, she thought, as she trekked home through the silent night. Silent night, holy night. All is calm, all is bright. Yeah, maybe for some, but not her. Her mind screamed pain. Nothing was calm, all was dark. And the only holy thing she’d ever known had crashed down around her ears thirty-five years ago, when Sam cut out, taking off with the kids. She didn’t blame him. She still loved him. Sometimes she wondered how the kids were doing. Probably way better than if she'd stuck around. She accepted full responsibilty for the rift, but it still hurt. No, she couldn’t blame him for abandoning her - he had to slam the door on Amy’s colder weather, lest he or the kids ended up freezing up like her.
She’d gotten a letter from her oldest daughter, Julie, that morning, informing her that Sam was dead. Amy regretted not sticking around to see if they could work things out. She regretted missing out on seeing the kids grow up. Julie wanted to know if she wanted to come home for the funeral, to have a chance to say goodbye, and maybe make up or at least explain things to her kids. Amy considered: Decades of love was lost, but was there a chance it might be found?
She found herself on a Greyhound bus. She’d make it to the funeral in time, and get the chance to say goodbye to Sam, but she didn’t count on anything more. Amy’s kids might not be so willing to forgive the lost years, and why should they? Their mother had chosen to become a stranger to them. As the bus rumbled along, she overheard a song playing on the radio:
When I close my eyes I see you
No matter where I am
I can smell your perfume through these whispering pines
I’m with your ghost again
It’s a shame about the weather
But I know soon we’ll be together
And I can’t wait ‘til then
I can’t wait ‘til then1
Yeah, maybe they might be together someday. It was just a shame that it couldn’t have happened in this life, but she could never learned how to quench the colder weather in her soul. Maybe they’d meet again someplace warmer. But her fondest wish…? Maybe, just maybe, she’d live to see the thaw of her own soul.
From “Colder Weather,” by the Zac Brown Band
Good story, Jeannine.
I'm allergic to cold. It's biting and bitter... always happens this time of year.