dmseay

She liked to watch cooking shows. Quick, easy recipes to cook at home for her husband of thirty years. She thought ingredients like curry, cardamom, and cloves were exotic. Tried her hand at hams, roasts, chicken cooked to perfection, various cream sauces. He always smiled.

The kids had left the nest a few years ago. This allowed her to be more adventurous. No more mashed potatoes and honey glazed carrots. Now she only cooked with vegetables in season; fresh herbs, bottles of wine. Her days of making meatloaf were over.

The grayish blonde tried everything to make her husband happy. Both in the kitchen and in the bedroom. She followed Jerry Hall’s directions; a chef in the kitchen and a whore in the bedroom. She thought her marriage would last forever.

One night she waited at the dining room table alone. His car had not pulled up in their long driveway, office phone unanswered, cell was dead.

She went out looking for him. Drove all over town. Down Main Street, on side streets, passed the liquor store, the golf greens, she drove everywhere. He was not to be found.

The Chevrolet was discovered a day later in a town over in Jasper County. Parked by a train station. He’d left without her. Gone with another woman, a younger model. The bank account had been dwindled down to where she had half. A note was found in his desk. I have to move on, the letter said. It is time, she cried.

The days of cooking gourmet were over. The days of pleasing him were done. She ordered a pizza.

Waiting for what? Coffee that drips slowly? Butter to soften on the counter for toast? The cats chase each other. Back and forth down the hallway at top speed. One jumps the other like a New York mugging. He cries then escapes. Meanwhile coffee continues to drip slowly. Butter softens on the counter.

Looking outside it is pitch black. No reflection of light on snow. There are no stars. The sounds of plows in the distance. I only hear the sounds of salt trucks and semis going down 41. Someone will jackknife. Bet your last dollar.

And, there is no sound of wind. It has died down. Leaving mounds of drifted snow behind. A man begins to shovel his driveway. Making blocks of heavy packed snow and ice then tossing them to the side. He uses salt for footing.

The coffee is ready. Butter has softened. The sun rises in the East. It is just another morning in February.

He decided to drive in the storm. Snow coming down. State plows out on 41 and 10. Backroads still untouched. Back of his pickup swung out a little.

The old man kept the radio on all news. Smoky voices telling him the worst was yet to come. Pure white. Windshield wipers couldn’t keep up. He pulled off to the side of the road. Opened a Thermos of coffee and turned off the engine. He just listened to silence.

Watched the snow fall at a rapid rate. Thought of his wife who was long gone. Died years ago in the winter. Curled up in bed and she was gone.

Snow reminded him of that night. The black skies and white flakes falling down. He sat there taking it all in for a good half hour. Meditated on it. Then started the Ford and moved on.

He spent winter days watching snow fall and reading Emily Dickinson. Thoughts of death; now that life had been lived.

Inches turned into feet then a yard. The old man would measure winter’s treasure each day with a wooden stick; standing in the backyard alone; planted there with the first snow fall.

Watched kids sledding on the nearby hill. Saw them building snow men. Carrots used for noses.

The old man waited for the end. But, inevitably, spring would come. Leaving death behind. Snow had disappeared. However, thoughts of Emily remained.

The pines out back were still green. They were always green. Sometimes brown needles would be strewn below on the ground.

Japanese maples lost their leaves back in October. Oaks, hickory, ashe, had gone through season’s autumnal cycle as well. He watched from his kitchen window. Saw bare trees of December. Thought of loved ones who have passed. Some were not loved; merely tolerated.

Every morning he’d meditate on thoughts of past. Wondered, as his end drew near, if he’d be judged by his wild youth, or, his calmer years of being settled down?

The women, drinks, schemes, Friday night bar fights, the loans that never got paid back, the lies, all these sins, his wild years, would he pay for those?

The good book says his sins were paid for at Calvary. Said Christ had set him free. If only he would ask. And, that’s something he could not do.

His wife of forty-five years asked him to believe. To reach out for God’s son. He told her he’d wait. Just like the trees for death. And wait, to be reborn.

These fields are empty. Brush on top of snow. Salted roads. Gray skies. It is the Midwest.

A deer carcass lay atop Highway 30. Off to the side of the road, his head faces east. Towards the bare trees. He almost made it.

There’s various plates amongst the cars and semis. Ohio, Wisconsin, New Jersey, Florida, all heading towards Chicago. Chicago, used to be a mecca for travelers. Now it’s just another Midwest town falling. And, it can’t get up.

Detroit, Cleveland, St. Louis, the whole region drifting towards nothing. No more surprises. Just gray skies above.

It is winter.

They used to walk in Washington Square Park. Watched tourists take pictures and art students pose. Saw the changing of seasons fall upon concrete. Indian vendors selling samosas. Lines for bathrooms on Saturday afternoons. Fall never tasted so good.

The pair galloped down streets in the Village. Strolling past coffee shops, restaurants, bookstores, record shops, Greek diners, the two took it all in. Smells from down the alleys. Dogs walking their masters.

And Chelsea with the sun bouncing off brownstones. The YMCA down the street where Albee used to hang out. Chinese markets where Ginsberg picked his fruit. Cabs being replaced by Uber drivers. Busses run throughout the night.

Dear old Manhattan, they pondered. True old friend. Don’t ever leave us, they whispered. Don’t.

She wandered down to the stream. A frozen creek. In the summer it ran north to south with water pushing over stones and limbs. Flowers on both sides. Yellows, blues, reds, orange, colors for miles. Hawks would fly over.

Years ago, she fished in this small body of water. It was in vain. There were no fish in that creek. Deep down inside she knew that. But, it was a ritual. The casting of the line. Watching the red and white bobber float on the surface. It never went down.

And now she stands over the frozen water skipping rocks on ice. This was the practice of winter. Throwing rocks and talks with God. It pleased her. She’d pray as the evening sun went down. A simple prayer of peace.

Tomorrow 100,000 troops will be lined at the border. Trucks and guns and launchers and young men old enough to be her sons will stand and wait for orders from a man who knows no peace.

Does God hear prayers? She wondered.

She used to send him messages from around the world. Greetings from North Dakota, she’d say. Or, Salutations from Portland. These notes were always on real pretty postcards. He saved them over the years. Had one with the Statue Of Liberty on it. He always wondered how they built that.

One time he got a postcard from Paris, France. Had the Eiffel Tower on it. Turned it over and there was no note. Just blank white with a stamp on it. He pinned it to his wall just like the rest of them. Just a picture. No words.

Then they stopped coming. No more picture postcards. No more notes. He thought something might’ve happened to her. Maybe she’d ran into trouble in Turkey. Perhaps she was in a South American prison. He wasn’t sure.

Could’ve been she just didn’t want to communicate with him anymore. She got tired of writing. He knew one thing for sure. He’d never see her again. She was gone. She had the guts to leave while others just talked about it.

He missed her.

He watched her make coffee. Just as he had a thousand times. Snow had piled up. Outside, the symphony of snowplows moved up and down driveways and sidewalks. She was starting breakfast.

The cast iron skillet made a sizzling sound as eggs and potatoes hit the black bottom. She moved the concoction around the pan, added salt and pepper; a little Louisiana Hot Sauce. He looked on the way he always had for thirty years. Children outside were bundled up in coats and hats.

She plated breakfast and sat it down in front of him. Kissed him on the forehead and poured herself a cup of coffee. He smiled at her. She smiled at him. A Dodge got stuck in a ditch.