Fiction logo

The Winter Has Been Cold

A reflection on processing and holding grief

By Carol LipshultzPublished 2 years ago Updated 2 years ago 7 min read
Runner-Up in Return of the Night Owl Challenge
Like

Gasping for air and slipping on uncertain footing, I fervently chipped away at the inches of snow and ice that coated my Rav4. Forest green under white sheets, it mimicked the firs and pines shrouding our quiet college campus. I had forgotten my mittens again. Blushed fingers stiffly grappled against the old brush with each stab and huff of frustration. It was a long semester. Nor'easters piled snow as fast as professors buried us in assignments.

In the wan afternoon sun, I was frozen by the time I could climb into my car. Should’ve started it earlier, warming it up would’ve saved me from what felt like impending frostbite. The windshield became translucent as I caught my breath. After a couple sputtering attempts, I was lucky to hear the unhealthy wheeze of my rusted engine. Everything is slower in the winter, both person and vehicle.

I pulled out of the parking space, moving cautiously around the other bent backs throwing snow loosely about the lot. My tires needed to be replaced. All-year tires can’t last all years. At least the cassette to aux cord converter still worked. Below 10 degrees Fahrenheit and my car’s cassette tape slot vindictively chews up and spits out anything inside. Preparing for the three-hour trip home for winter break, I mustered the last of my energy and chose to hit shuffle.

Somber chords jutted against my tired mind. Soft guitar strums eased into lyrics about September coming and passing as grief lingers. This was one of my dad’s favorite bands. He had the music taste of an angsty adolescent and the emotional intelligence to match.

I thought: I should feel sad. I did feel sad, I think. It can be hard to feel. Mostly, though, I felt cold. I let it play out, let myself sink into memory while meandering down the salt crusted roads toward the highway south. The song crescendoed as I accelerated down the road. My car shook a bit. I think the tires were misaligned.

Mourning lyrics pulled at the back of my mind, and I realized I had forgotten the date again. December 17th always came without fanfare. The best I tried the date never stuck. I needed to put it in my Google calendar, next to the club meetings and final exam test slots. Next to the dentist appointment and right before the essay extension timed out. My dad’s death day. It had been two years now. Time passed but time froze. My life had been moving glacially since we lost him. Covering so much area but crawling at an imperceptible pace.

Part of what numbs you is the inability to pause, to substantially reflect. College is not compatible with grief. You’re expected to be sad on your own time. If it interferes with expectations, you get words of strained support with no substantial help. Just failing grades, thoughts, and prayers. An academic warning that’s supposed to rally your efforts and antidepressants that make your blood move like chilled tree sap.

The music trailed off and I made conscious eye contact with the taillights ahead of me. Evergreens and birches lined the highway, embroidering my view with blocks of green, blue, and white. Wings occasionally flitted across the wooded periphery; red-tailed hawks and blue jays always accompanied my trips during the day.

A few hours passed as I continued trailing my way through eclectic discography. Jazz was playing when the sun moved beneath the tree line. Hues of orange and red passionately tore upwards in cloud-feathered bursts and soon faded into the star-studded inky darkness famous of the rural north. Exiting the interstate highway, I began meandering down the lesser occupied sections of road that cut through the center of numerous small towns.

Glancing at my dashboard, I realized my gas gauge had dipped beneath an eighth of a tank. I’d need to hit the next gas station. If I only stopped one more time I’d make it home before 8pm. My mom would be waiting for me when I got there. Both of my sisters are far older and live scattered across the U.S., so it would just be my mom and I in the home he died in. Jessica might make the drive up for Christmas, but Kate was unlikely to fly across the coast on the budget of a graduate student. It might be difficult to be alone with my mom. Her grief manifested far differently than my own, something I understand as natural but often unsettling.

My mom’s crystal blue eyes glittered with a tenuous tight wire of energy triggered as an attempt to escape above the depression that came with his death. Even before his death, there was never a net below her. When she spoke, words incessantly flew out of her mouth as a desperate plea, to be known and to exist. It was as if hearing her own voice reminded her that she can still pierce and alter reality. But those words never came alongside awareness. They exited her mouth and mind simultaneously. It's hard to grieve when the people you try to grieve with have deeply limited awareness. I can’t remember the last time I’d had a genuine conversation with her. But maybe I just don’t give her enough credit.

She has an unparalleled ability to create from grief. Creation of entire past narratives and story arcs that never played out in our lifetimes, at least not outside of her mind. In a single train of thought my father would transform from a selfish man who couldn’t fight a terminal disease to the martyred patriarch of a loving household. An outsider would be hard pressed to find reality in anything she said.

In my truth, my dad was an intelligent, nerdy, angry man who had never been given the guidance to feel. Frozen and stunted because the world wouldn’t let him stop and re-associate with himself. He cared for his kids deeply but lacked the ability to express much emotion. It was only after his diagnosis that I saw him cry, saw him genuinely realize that he was around people he loved and could lose, including himself. In the end, he seemed to die steeped in a turmoil of regret and the potential for growth.

The glaring outline of a gas station sign disrupted the dark horizon. I pulled over and emerged from my car stiffly. Driving was always easier when you just kept going. It’s only when you stop that you notice how stiff you are, how much you actually have to piss. The latter problem was taken care of first. I came back out of the gas station with chips, $25 on the pump, and the desire for hand sanitizer. Leaving the handle pressed into the automatic fill position, I stuck my hands in my pockets and meandered around the parking lot. It bordered dense forest, the only lit-up lot for miles. Peering around, an unfamiliar creature caught my eye.

The ethereal mask of a barn owl was illuminated in the fluorescent gas station lights. Stoically gazing toward me, it rested on a branch surprisingly close to the empty street. Owls are occasionally attracted to the interface between small towns and wilderness that beckons mice into buildings with promises of crumbs and warmth. They’re rare in Maine, even rarer in the winter. My breath condensed and clouded in front of me, shrouding the owl in a churning mist. Slowed movements did nothing to reassure the creature, as one foot closer and the owl swiftly opened its wings. It proceeded to disappear into the night in search of less busy hunting grounds. The clunk of the gas handle brought my attention back to the task at hand. Shaking my legs to reinvigorate blood flow, I made my way to the car handle and opened the door.

The last thirty minutes of the drive were an uneventful push to the bumpy dirt road hill that led up to my childhood home. Parking past the chicken coop, I eased out of the car and picked up my backpack and duffle bag from the back seat. Watching my step on the haphazardly sanded driveway, I made my way in through the front door. Upon entry, I saw my mom walking toward me from the kitchen.

“Welcome home college student! I’m never sure what you eat anymore, so I got out some hummus from the fridge.”

She pulled me into a hug, and it felt nice. After a few seconds I separated myself and set down the bag I was carrying.

“Thanks mom, I’ll have some in a minute”

“Did you notice the trees outside? Budding early this year!”

“Oh, that’s good. I don’t mind spring coming early. Winter felt like long enough.”

We smiled at each other as my mom shifted her weight between each foot and cleared her throat softly.

“I’m betting it’ll be a while. Those poor little squirrels and birds and buds that come out too early always die off. What would they even eat out there? And the wind chill? Of course Phil is gonna see his shadow and then just run back in. Just our luck each time, huh?”

“Yeah, just our luck. Always sticks around for longer than we want it to.”

Short Story
Like

About the Creator

Carol Lipshultz

I'm a chemist who loves to be an artist/writer for enjoyment.

(they/them)

Reader insights

Be the first to share your insights about this piece.

How does it work?

Add your insights

Comments

There are no comments for this story

Be the first to respond and start the conversation.

Sign in to comment

    Find us on social media

    Miscellaneous links

    • Explore
    • Contact
    • Privacy Policy
    • Terms of Use
    • Support

    © 2024 Creatd, Inc. All Rights Reserved.