Jonas lived at the edge of the woods, where the foot of the mountains met the expanse of the valley. It was a small cabin he lived in; just big enough for his needs and comfort. Nothing more than a room or two, for he lived alone. There was a barn, as well, where he kept a horse and parked a jeep, for his sole joy was riding over the plains and in the canyons. Once a week he traveled by car into the nearby town to gather provisions and call his daughters, who lived different lives, far, far away from his mountains and valleys.
He loved his daughters, but they didn’t understand him. They didn’t understand his need for solitude. They didn’t understand his loneliness. Their own lives barely intersected each other’s, for they weren’t related by blood, but by love, and not even their own love, but his love for them and for the separate women who had birthed them. Jonas didn’t think about that much, about the chasm between the two of them, or of the fragile bridges that held them together, but he did think of them often on his solitary rambles. He thought of Mariah, his youngest, his natural child who was him all over again in all ways but looks, for where he was small and slim, she was tall and voluptuous. She was gifted and wonderful, full of life, full of music, perhaps the best part of him and a true reflection of the younger man he once was. He thought of Sophia, his child by choice, older than Mariah, a gentle woman of unfathomable compassion who had captured his heart as sure as her mother had. And every day, every single day he thought of Sophia’s mother, the wife who had been no wife, but who had been his life, his mate, his true other half. He no longer thought of her by name, it hurt too much; instead he saw her in every tree, every bird, every autumn leaf, every sun beam and drop of rain. He missed that woman, and had left their life when she had left hers as unexpectedly as she had entered it. Jonas loved his daughters, but they didn’t understand his grief, or how it consumed him completely; how everything in his old life was a painful reminder that he was alone and that it was easier to be here, where he was, then there, where she, that miracle that she had been, wasn’t.
Jonas looked out the window and saw that the sky was curdling with clouds. Snow was coming. He gave a cursory glance around the room, assessed his needs, his lacks, and sighed. He squashed his battered hat on his head, shrugged on his coat and went to the barn for his jeep.
The ride into town was beautiful, the road winding up and down through a narrow pass that always gave the illusion of night on the brightest days, the high stone walls a luminous blue. The town was small, nothing more than an outpost really, with a grocery, and post office, and a feed-come-general store. If he needed anything beyond the bare necessities, Jonas had to travel miles from this small hamlet, over mountains and into the next valley where there was a proper city. He didn’t do that often.
Jonas gathered his needs, food, fodder, a few pairs of warm socks to replace some that had worn through. He smiled and nodded and tipped his hat when required, spoke few words and made quick work of his excursion. It wasn’t that he didn’t like the people who lived there; it was simply that he no longer wanted the company of people. He didn’t want conversation and discourse, or to discuss the affairs of the day. He wanted to be in his cabin or with his horse, riding. For a moment, he considered calling his daughters, but rejected that thought. It wasn’t his usual day; they would become concerned and they were concerned enough already.
The snow came.
It dusted the ground at first, and then put a proper coating on the valley. By the time it began to accumulate, Jonas was back in his cabin, safe and snug. He banked a fire in the ancient but serviceable stove, banked another in the cozy fireplace, made himself a fried egg and a pot of coffee and settled in. He read, for his only indulgence was books that lined the walls of the cabin like an extra layer of insulation. Bundled in an old saddle blanket he sat in his comfortable chair and read until he fell asleep, waking when a particularly strong gust of wind rattled the glass in the windows.
He got up and added a few sticks to the fire in the stove and the one in the hearth, before looking out into the darkness.
She was in the window, smiling at him. Jonas felt sharpness in his chest. Her hair blew around her face just the way he remembered it, in long, white waves that mingled with the snow; that seemed a part of the snow. He smiled back at her, remembering how she struggled with those long tendrils, remembering how she hated the way it knotted, remembering how he loved to tangle himself in it. A sound bubbled from his lips, her name, whispered, and the vision of her dissolved into the storm. Jonas realized that he was standing barefoot on the cold wooden floor. He glanced at his feet wondering where his socks had gone to, and then noticing them on the floor near his boots where he had removed them, to what purpose he couldn’t recall. His eyes went back to the window and all he saw was his own reflection, the narrow, thin face with his own length of white hair pulled back in a severe braid, the whole of this portrait surrounded by frost etchings.
When Jonas slipped into his bed, he noticed that his cheeks were wet and that his hands trembled. He noticed that his hands were old.
The following morning Jonas woke to a distinct hush. One look at the windows told him the reason, for the storm continued to rage outside and the snow was thick on the ground. He pulled on his heavy coat, wrapped a scarf around his face and made his way to the barn to check on his horse, then made his way back, frozen to the bone. There would be no ride that day, perhaps not tomorrow from the looks of things. He settled in, stoked the fires, heated some soup, and huddled into his chair where it was warm with his current book. He dozed throughout the day into the night, never setting foot out into the storm.
Jonas dreamed.
He dreamed of the past, of the women that had shared his life; the one he had left and the one who had left him. He dreamed of happiness taken, given and lost. He dreamed of the vision in the window, of the woman who had never formally been his wife, for she refused him time and again with the offer of his name, preferring that her presence in his life on a daily basis serve as validation enough of her love for him. And when he woke in the middle of the night, with the embers casting long shadows on the walls, she was there again, a pale face in the frosted window, smiling her familiar smile. Jonas drew himself up, let the blankets fall back and stared at her, at the well-known lines of her face. Her eyes were tender, kind, and created a longing in him that made him shrink back under the heavy blankets and squeeze his eyes shut while he again, allowed her name to slip out of his rigid mouth, and again, she disappeared into the snow.
Jonas slept late into the day. When he eventually pulled himself from bed it was as if he hadn’t slept at all. His thoughts were heavy upon him as he ate a breakfast of bread and butter before venturing outside to see to his horse.
The air was sharp when he left the cabin. Each breath Jonas took seemed filled with ice crystals that burned his nose and made his eyes water. Slowly, with deliberate precision, he began to shovel and tamp a path to the barn, every so often checking the sky that was still quilted with storm clouds that had yet to unleash themselves. He thought that perhaps his work was for naught, that the careful rut he had made would only refill itself in quick order, but shook that thought off, for he enjoyed the strain of the work on its own. Aching muscles helped to quiet his aching heart.
His horse was fine, needing only the usual care, and again, Jonas was purposeful in his tending to the stall, to the trough, to the watering of his lone companion. He took the time to curry the stallion, brushing him with great care until his coat was smoothed and the horse was calm. Then he left the barn and stood outside again in the frigid air, taking deep breaths and wondering if he might ride out tomorrow, that thought interrupted by a fresh gust of flakes that dropped down on his upturned face. No. Not today, not tomorrow. It seemed that the true winter had arrived unexpectedly early and he would have to adjust and adapt his days to the new rhythm. Jonas secured the barn door, touched the rough wood with his gloved hand before making his way back to the cabin.
He wasn’t hungry, although he thought he should be. Instead, he ran a bath, the only convenience he allowed himself because he had always liked to soak in hot water, and today he wanted to soothe his back, soothe his head that seemed heavy with fatigue. Jonas sat in his tub, chin deep and let his mind drift with the steam. She had liked the water, too, hot, warm, cool, all kinds. They had shared that, the love of soaking. They had often shared a tub, or the shower. He could recall her hair, long, dark before it had shot through with silver and eventually whitened completely, he could recall it drifting around them in the tub, tangling with his own overlong hair that she refused to let him cut. The pang in his chest returned, heavy, relentless as the first day it took up residence; the day she left him. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t a purposeful leave taking, that it was, in fact, a reluctant goodbye, a veritable battle that the both of them had waged until it was hopeless. Hopeless. Jonas had felt hopeless ever since.
The water cooled and he finished his bathing, showered off the residue of the bath and dressed himself in warm clothing. He had the fires to tend to, and he forced himself to eat toasted bread and butter, a swallow of tepid soup, before settling in his chair with his blanket and book. His eyes drooped; sleep came quickly and his dreams were vivid and sharp.
He was young again, or younger, and they were together and he was happy. He could see himself smiling, laughing out loud with her, and she laughed too, her eyes flashing. They danced, she was always a little surprised that he danced, and danced well, but they danced and laughed and in his dream, Jonas felt the sun on his face and the warmth of her hands and a lightness he hadn’t felt in a decade. On waking he heard the hush of snow all around him, and without looking, knew she was there, in the window. He got up and approached the glass, saw his own reflection on top of hers and reached out, the tips of his fingers skimming the cold surface.
His hand melted through the glass and the rest of him followed and she was there, again, there, warm and there was no coldness at all, for the snow melted away from them and they were young again, or younger, and they were together in the sun, dancing, as it had always been.
