The Long Cold Winter (#2) - eBook

Chapter 1

Snow fell as I drove along Government Way. It was the first snowfall of winter, and it was already sticking. The forecast was for several inches to accumulate by day’s end. The consensus of the local weather forecasters was that a tough season was approaching.

That was also my prediction, and it had nothing to do with how the impending La Nina impacted weather patterns.

The Monday morning traffic, even on a secondary arterial, crawled due to the snow. It was my first day back at work, but I didn’t feel ready. Sooner or later, I would have to return. I realized that. It’s who I was. In my head, I knew I’d been gone long enough. In my heart, though, it felt like I’d only been gone a minute.

The tires slipped as I turned off Government Way and into the parking lot. I slowly drove to where my wife was waiting.

I climbed out of the car and looked up into the gray sky, snowflakes landing on my face. I took a moment to compose myself. Shoving my hands into my pants pockets, I walked over to her.

“I’m late,” I said. “The weather.” It was a lame excuse. She would know better.

I bent down and wiped the snow from the flat marble headstone, revealing only her name. Roberta “Bobbie” Ann Nash. I didn’t care to see the date of her death. I knew that too well.

“Today’s my first day back,” I whispered.

She didn’t answer. She never does. I’m not crazy.

I stood and shoved my hands back into my pockets but left my coat open. The cold worked its way inside and nipped at the lightly covered areas of my body. I didn’t pull the long coat closed, though. I wanted to feel something other than the hurt inside.

I told Bobbie about my morning. How I managed to burn over-easy eggs yet forced myself to gut them down. The black coffee I was now putting creamer into. She always drank it with flavored creamer, and I had always taken it straight. Now, I can’t stand the idea of it without some sort of flavor in it. Opening the refrigerator and seeing a creamer inside reminds me of her. I described my outfit for the first day back—black suit and a light blue shirt. I explained to her about my trouble focusing on the newspaper, no matter how hard I tried.

Then I told her about the song I woke up with inside my head.

The morning music was a recurring event since her passing. Today’s song was “Gimme Shelter” by the Rolling Stones. It doesn’t take a psychology degree to figure out what my subconscious was telling me. Or maybe it was all random musical gibberish since yesterday’s morning serenade was Judas Priest’s “The Green Manalishi (with The Two Prong Crown),” a song I hadn’t listened to in a decade. Bobbie hated Judas Priest, so I rarely listened to it when she was within earshot.

For a moment, I had the idea that Bobbie was trying to send me messages. I quickly dismissed that notion.

Thanksgiving had recently come and gone. I spent the weekend alone in our house, answering calls and texts from friends and family. Most of the conversations were one-sided and played out the same way. They talked, and I muttered affirmations that I was fine and would take care and wouldn’t do anything to hurt myself. I don’t know why people assume I would do something like that.

I never told them about those thoughts, so how would they know?

When I ran out of things to say, I watched the snowfall accumulate on her headstone.

“I miss you,” I said, hoping for an answer. None came.

As I said, I’m not crazy.

When the snow eventually covered her name, I fought to control the tears.