Finding Comfort in Winter and Time

The day after Thanksgiving, my friend and I drove to a used furniture store just outside Ephrata, Pennsylvania, in Lancaster County. The sky was clear and blue, but a cold wind swept through the streets. Brick row houses were decorated with Christmas wreaths, and inflatable Santas and teddy bears filled the small front yards.

I was hunting for a living room chair, preferably one upholstered with an interesting pattern and roomy enough to enjoy my morning coffee and newspaper. Furniture stores in Chester County, where I live, feature uninspiring showrooms filled with a sea of beiges and whites at ridiculous prices. As we wandered through the large warehouse, I remarked to my friend that I thought most of the furniture had probably been taken out of dead people’s homes. She agreed that it was the case. Who were they? What did they die of? There were mahogany armoires and brass headboards, leather sofas and recliners…even a washer and dryer on the lower level of the store. A beautiful red chair, embroidered with gold designs, had, unfortunately, been tagged with a “Sold” sign.

The day before, I watched large snowflakes swirling across golden, brown fields of cut corn and flocks of black crows—the first snowfall of the season. The beauty of that scene was tinged with gratitude that I could experience this for yet another year, although I admit there was bittersweetness too.

When I got home, I pressed my cheek against Lily’s soft yellow fur. She has no inkling of what is to come, nor does she care. Loneliness doesn’t plague a dog, nor does unrequited love, or dreams of what once was but is no more.

I remember our last Christmas together. The heavy navy bathrobe I bought you from L.L. Bean couldn’t conceal your wraith-like frame underneath, eaten away by unrelenting cancer. I watch our sons, six and ten, joyfully unwrap their presents, unaware of how sick you were. I remember your smile as you showed them how to use the remote control on a toy truck. I remember your patience with them. We both knew this would be our last Christmas together.

I hadn’t learned yet about surrender, about realizing that I couldn’t control this, let alone control anything. What I learned is that after you, I had no desire to put effort into one-sided, half-hearted relationships. And as the years went on, I tried to be there for our sons, without losing sight of who I was, or thought I was.

While the pain and the grief linger some days over the icy layers of time—the unfairness of it all—that can never erase how much we loved you. Mary Oliver once wrote that there are some memories “I would not give up upon the point of death, they are the bright hawks of my life.”

Someday, the antique ice chest in my dining room, and the paintings of Southwestern sunsets by an artist long dead, will most likely end up in a used furniture store. Even this, what I write now, is only putting words on a page. They, too, will someday be forgotten.

Only God knows. There is comfort in that. These are the things that come with time.

Now I hold those “bright hawks” of memories close. They keep me warm on cold winter days. They remind me that nothing lasts forever, but I once knew love. And so I let my worries fly away like those first winter snowflakes.