An Untitled Winter Flash Fiction from Winter Hill

       The snow falls silently as I sit under the tree shuffling my feet in front of me. I put the book of poems beside me and rub my hands together and blow into them. I pick the book up, because my hands feel empty with out it. I lean my head against the tree watching my breath fog. Something about that makes me want to cry and laugh at the same time.

       I used to love this weather. Now the cold is just a reminder that I'm here alone. It makes my nose run. I sniff and wipe my face with the back of a gloved hand. I have a lovely view of the cemetery from my tree. I can see almost every grave plot from my place under the tree.

       I can see you in my imagination, with your stupid guitar. I try to remember all the happy songs you sang, but I can only remember the sad ones. The sad love songs that never had a subject and the sad songs that you wrote when you were happy. Sadness always had a way of making you happy. Someone told me that sadness is really happiness for deep people. At the time I wasn't so sure about that, but you changed my mind.

       It fits nicely that I'm here now. Something about this place, the snow, your old, sad songs echoing in my head, makes me want to lie down here and go to sleep. I'm not sad or angry anymore; just tired. Maybe all the months of sadness and anger finally wore me out. My mother told me once that the reason people die when they get old is because their bitterness finally makes them tired enough to die of exhaustion. I'm not sure if I believe her. But I believe that here, now, I am having trouble convincing myself not to sleep in the snow.

       If you were here you would lie down with me and we would pretend the world doesn't exist. We would have a nice time. We would take pictures with the camera on your phone and laugh at how ridiculous they are. But then you would come to your senses and we would get up, dust off the snow and go home. Once we would get home you would make two cups of tea and put on a record. We would sit on the old, lumpy couch and drink tea and listen to old records.

       But you're not here and I don't want to get up. You're not here to tell me that I have to. You're not here to take me home and engage in this lovely picture if domesticity that I have created in my mind. You're not here to remind me that it's not my fault that you're gone. You're not here here to remind that it's not your fault either. I'm trying to be a grown up about all of this, I really am, but it seems that I just can't.

       You always were better at the whole grown up thing than I am. It seemed like you could go from the person I knew at home to some professional who handled his business. I tried to learn, I really did. My father appreciates that you took care of me the way you did. He misses you. I'm sorry that I never took care of you the way you took care of me. I'm sorry I never took care of you the way I should have.

       There are so many things I am sorry for. I am sorry that we never got to go Paris at Christmastime. I'm sorry that I didn't make you tea more often. I am sorry we never moved out of this town. I am sorry that our life wasn't a picture of domestic bliss all the time. I'm sorry you never got the girl you deserved. I am sorry that I have to say I'm sorry so often.

       I smile to myself. You never minded that “sorry” was said so often though. We were such different people. So many times you would just stare out the window over the couch. I always thought you were in the middle of some sort of artistic introspection. You probably were. Now, though, I think you were probably thinking out me, or our relationship. It was less artistic and more... I don't know, just you.

       I finally allow myself to lie back into the snow. I smile again with those images from earlier floating around in my head. I lie there for a while thinking about some idiot joke you used to tell. I actually laugh quietly to myself. Eventually a voice in my head that sounds much too much like yours tells me to get up. I do. And I dust the snow off my jacket and jeans. I begin the short walk to the house we used to share.

       I unlock the door and let the old scent that I still associate with you hit me. The warmth makes my face hurt. I take off the layers outerwear that have kept me from freezing. I leave the clothes and my boots by the door. I go to the kitchen still wearing my socks and make tea. As the water is heating up I go to the living room and put a record onto the player. As it begins I make my tea. I take my Christmas mug, the one with the chip in the rim, and curl up on the couch. It feels so familiar. I can almost hear you coming down the hall humming.

       I understand there will be no more easy winters. I am beginning to be okay with that. It makes sense to me that the frozen months are the months that remind me most of you. You slipped away with the changing leaves. It makes sense that winter, the season you love most, is the season that took you away. I don't think you would have let another season take you. You were stubborn that way. You left when you wanted to. And if nothing else ever does, that makes sense to me.