The Cold That Stays

Your house is cold now.  Not the transient cold that drafts in when you open the door in February, blasted by hurting, freezing air – no, this is a cold that stays long after you've slammed the door shut. 

The cold that stays is different than the cold you felt as a child. You could be bundled up, hooded, and hot chocolated as a child.  Now, no amount of layers or mittens, or cocoa will warm you like it did when you were nine.  Comfort comes in short bursts that fizzle out fast.

Your house is now roofed, windowed, carpeted and doored by cold.  The heat is transient now.  The cold stays.

You will try to beat the cold.  You will wear extra layers.  You will fiddle with the thermostat.  Hell, you’ll probably even go the extra mile and put on a sweater. 

None of it will work.  You’ll get some temporary relief, but eventually, the cold will come back; through the wooden window frame, under the door, back into your bones where it lives now. 

But you want help.  So here are some things you can do to extend the fleeting, shortening moments of warmth and comfort in your life. 

Since you are alone, kindle a fire.  Keep your feet, which led you to this cold, next to the fire so that they can try to recall the path that brought you to this cold, empty house.  It’s okay to visit with memories.  It’s not okay to move in with them and co-sign a lease with them.  

There are tricks you can play on yourself and on the cold.   It won’t be deceived for long.  The cold is savvy and sticky and likes being stuck to you.  It doesn’t care that you don’t like being stuck to it.

Friction can trick the cold, rub your hands together.  Clap them.  Wring them.  Hand-wringing is something you should feel natural doing.  Think of your cold and wring them hard.  You will feel the passing warmth – passing into your hands and arms.  Then it will pass down your arms, through your hands, and out from your fingers, which will be stiff and cold again.  Wiggle them to hold that last bit of warmth for another few seconds.

Cover yourself with the quilt.  It will be painful the first few times you feel it on you, smell it on you.  But it will be your best trick against the cold because it’s not just the wool in the quilt, it’s the memories of the quilt.  They will flow over you like warm water. 

You will want to stay under the quilt.  You’ll think that you can beat the cold with the quilt and its wool interwoven with memories.  You’ll remember the needles and notions that made the quilt and that will keep you warm.  But you must get out from under the quilt back into the cold.  Lest you become a notion too.  So fold it neatly and return it to the back of the loveseat.  The memories that will come with that act will give you another few seconds, like wiggling your fingers, but then you will remember that the house is no longer warm. 

You must learn that you cannot defeat nor escape the cold.  It lives in you now; in your favorite chair, in the hardwood floor, on the bannister.  It especially likes the other side of the bed, which will be especially cold and will remain that way because you would never, could never, lie on that side of the bed. 

You’re not happy with temporary fixes?  You want something lasting?  You want to be warm again – the way you were warm before? 

You can’t have it.  That warmth is now reserved for another place that you might someday find, but not today – not tomorrow – not next Wednesday. 

What you can have – your best chance – is a painful path.  ou’ve spent your time running from the cold.  That can never work.  The cold in your house is much faster than you.  Its knees aren’t replaced - its Achilles untorn. 

In fact, the harder you run, the more the cold will catch you and cling to you.  Stop running from it – turn and face it.  Look through it.  Yes, the chilled air will bring tears to your eyes.  Look through the tears; look through the years and take hold of the cold.  Then perhaps, you can finally feel the warmth and the cold and live with both…in your house...by the fire…under your quilt.