7th Moanin' of Christmas

February 10, 2014

Greetings from where the colors mix together,

His slippers made a raspy noise against the linoleum as he moved to the sink.  Placing one cup, one bowl in the stainless steel square, rinsing the last bits of food down the drain.  He leaned on the counter for a moment and let his focus slip outside the small window over the sink.

Outside the world had been reduced to simple contrasts.  The snow blanketed everything, the sky floated gray above the dull white terrain. Trees stood in dark relief, like charcoal drawings against the ashen canvas.

It didn’t matter to him, he couldn’t see color now, another rite of passage into his advanced years.  It snuck up on him; macular degeneration, slowly wearing away the colors in his world until all that was left was what looked like an old movie playing through his glasses.

The doctor had given him a booklet to read about it but somehow it had gotten in the mess on the kitchen table and he thought that maybe he had accidentally mailed it with his utility bill.  He stopped worrying about it, stopped trying to name the shades he had lost.

In truth he could still see one color. 

He had to think about what day it was, couldn’t be sure, and walked to the wall next to the back door where the calendar was.  His insurance agent had sent it; pictures of scenery from around the state, places that tourists might go that he had never seen.  He pushed his glasses further on his nose and peered at the dates; they were no help.  He had started to put X’s in the boxes so he would know what days had passed, but he could never recall if he remembered to do it or not. 

He scratched at the grey stubble on his face, scowled at the calendar as if it were bad news sent from a stranger.  It didn’t really matter much what day it was, except he was going to walk to the market.  If today was Sunday the store would be closed until noon. 

“It’s Friday.  We’ll go with that.” he said out loud. The kitchen responded with silence.

He sat in one of the wooden kitchen chairs and pulled on his boots; big insulated things designed by Arctic explorers.  The laces were long, meant to thread through complex loops and hooks and then there were Velcro straps to contend with.  He ignored convention and knotted the cords in a big bow and stood up.

He pulled on his winter jacket and took a hat off the little coatrack hanging on the wall.  It was his favorite; a plaid cap with a fleece lining, fleece flaps that folded down over his ears when he needed.  He stomped across the kitchen floor and pulled open the back door and pushed out into the bright grey.

The snow had drifted a bit over his driveway and front walk. He shoveled the walk out of habit, not that anyone used it.  Not even the mailman came up to his house anymore.

He walked up the drive and opened the small door leading into the garage.  Inside was his Buick, clean and dry, unused since they stopped renewing his license.  He opened a small bin and pulled out a scoop, ladled up a mound of birdseed and dropped the lid again.  He walked across the few yards to the edge of the house where the bird feeder was.

“Bird feeder.” He snorted to himself.  “Squirrel feeder is what it is.”  He filled the tray every day, out of habit, having long since forgotten what birds he was supposedly attracting.

He closed the garage door again and walked to the sidewalk and began his hike to the market.  The snow was still drifting down, turning his glasses into blurred panes.  He tucked them into his coat pocket and trudged on.

The street was quiet, any sounds dimmed by the coating of white. No one else was moving around this morning, and his were the first steps in the powder. His boots squeaked on the snow as he walked, marking his rhythm.  He looked up at the stop sign, smirked and walked on.

He was not sure how long he had been walking when he realized he had missed his turn.  He had not been paying attention, his head down against the wind, eyes squinting down, his glasses tucked in useless safety.  And now he looked around and didn’t recognize anything in the white landscape.  At that moment he realized how cold he was.

He turned in place, scanning the street for something familiar.  A small twinge of fear tweaked in his chest. There was a park; he assumed that from the monkey-bars and the teeter totter, both layered with several inches of snow like some demented pastry chef had just finished.  He looked across to where a car was parked and walked that way.

It was an ice rink.  He might not have noticed it, or bothered to guess its purpose, except there was a woman there, gliding across the surface as if she were flying over the whiteness, her arms slightly raised as she went.  She was graceful and elegant, even bundled in winter layers.

He walked to a small half wall at the edge of the rink and leaned on it.  He watched her skate across the outer curve of the rink and noticed something; she wore large, red mittens.  Big as oven mitts.

She skated along the oval, and seemed to see him and changed direction, slowing and pointing her skates toward him.  She coasted to a stop about ten feet away and stood there, balanced on steel blades, and smiled at him.

Her cheeks were tinged with red from the cold, and from the exertion, he imagined.  Her lips were shaped in a ruby bow beneath a petite nose.  He tried to form a sentence, but she started first.

“Good morning.” she said.

“Hello.” he said.  Suddenly he felt awkward, as if he could not fathom what should come next. 

“Some day, huh?” she said, as if winter had just been invented. 

“Yeah, I guess.” He looked up, glanced around like he might have missed something.  He looked back at her. “It’s grey.” he said, shrugging.

She was watching him closely, waiting for something.  She skated closer toward the wall.

He could not place her age.  He sensed something from her, a vibration. She seemed to be filled with life, brimming with it, a vivaciousness and energy that flowed from her.

 “Well, there’s more to it than gray, but you have to look for it.” Laughing a little.

He was not prepared for conversation; he forgot he had stopped to ask for directions.  He took out his glasses and wiped them on his coat, stalling for time.  She waited.  Finally, he said: “My name is Stanley.”

She paused for a moment. “Nice to meet you.” she said pulling off a mitten and extending her hand.  He took it without thinking and she squeezed his hand, and the warmth flowed from her.  He felt it rush up his arm, and fill his chest.  He looked into her eyes and felt it again. 

A moment passed. And the sensation, the warmth, spread over him.  He kept thinking that he should be letting go of her hand.  And he could not.  He forgot about being cold, about being lost.  He forgot about what he forgot. 

“I’m Hope.” she said it like he would recognize it, as if to say “But you knew that.”

“Nice to meet you.” he said, not even knowing he was going to say it.

“Stanley, your hand is frozen.  You should be wearing gloves.”  

He frowned, remembering now he had walked out without them.  He could see them, traitors, sitting on the kitchen table, warm and safe at home.

She let go of him at last and pulled off the other mitten and set them both on top of the wall next to his hands. 

“Take these.  I have gloves too.”  she said

“No, really I couldn’t take…”

“Please. Today is a day we give people gifts.”

His mind fluttered; he was sure it was not Christmas.  He was positive the calendar said February.  He looked at her, helplessly. 

“Come on Stanley.  Your hands are freezing.”

He reached over and picked up the mittens, fumbled them on.  He had trouble finding where his thumb went.  He struggled for a moment longer, self-conscious, silly that such a simple thing would be so hard.  And then they were on.  A perfect fit.

When he looked up she was still smiling.  He had not noticed before, but he saw the tiny lines at the corners of her eyes when she smiled.  Her face told him: she had known worry, but it did not overwhelm the smile.

“Thank you for the …the mittens.”  He held them up to prove he got it right.

“You’re welcome.  Looks like that’s your color.”

He chuckled.  “Yes, as a matter of fact, it is.”

“So,…do you skate?” she asked, still looking into his eyes as if she wanted to see the answer there.

He shook his head. “Not a great idea at my age.” he said, wagged his head and shoulders, miming as if he were losing his balance.

She laughed.  “You’re funny.  You just need someone to lean on while you get started.”

He shrugged, not sure how to disagree.

They stood at the little wall, the winter air tugging little clouds from their lips as they talked, and then the quiet swallowing them up again.  She reached to the little wall and patted his hand. 

“Ok, Stanley, I’ll see you tomorrow.”  She said, gliding backwards, impossibly it seemed.

Stanley paused.  “What, why.. am I going to see you tomorrow?”

She slowed and pointed one skate point down, stopping her glide.  “Because you are going to bring me hot chocolate.” she said with a smile that lit her entire face.  She pushed one blade into the ice and skated off.

He watched her for a moment longer, saw her wave, and then he turned to go.  He looked at his footprints in the snow and decided he was bright enough to follow his own trail back home.

In his kitchen he stood leaning against the kitchen counter, his hands cradling a cup of coffee.  The mittens lay on the kitchen table, formed a perfect ‘V’, joined at the cuffs, the two oversized ovals creating a heart shape on the oak. The shape reminded him of something.  He went back to the calendar hanging on the wall.  The twenty eight boxes, each with their own number,

Halfway through the month one of the boxes held a tiny heart.  Today’s box.  A red heart.

He smiled, his face a roadmap of creases and lines.  Somewhere in his chest the warmth spread again.

He searched in the cupboard until he found the old thermos.  He twisted off the top and rinsed it out and set it to dry.  He needed the little cup that used to screw on the top.  He pawed through the big drawer next to the Kelvinator.  Spatulas, corn cob holders, a whisk, can openers.  Here it is.  A red cup.  He set it near the thermos, and thought about how to make hot chocolate.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw movement at the window, something at the bird feeder.  When he looked it was gone.  And then it was back. A yellow finch.  Incredibly bright in the snowy white setting.  He closed his eyes and shook his head, and adjusted his glasses on his nose then looked again.  Yellow, with bits of green, tinged in black, the finch flitted for a moment, pecking at the golden feed, and then hopped to a pine branch, the deep emerald needles showing off its colors. 

He watched the bird feeder a while longer.  Blue Jays, a cardinal, another finch, a sparrow.  Little flurries of color appearing and vanishing at the window. 

He sighed, and let the smile come again.  He picked up his coffee, watched the world fill with color, and thought about where he had put his old hockey skates.

Hope this finds you with your heart full,

David

Copyright © 2014 David Smith