4/1/12

Cold As January
By Linda M. Crate


He was cold as January. Somehow he was not the man she had fallen in love with, he was not the man she married. She could understand that he was hurting, but was so she. She felt drained and weak after her six year old daughter had died from cancer. All she wanted to find was solace in his arms, but he was left bereft of a heart or so it seemed.

He couldn't even dare to be strong for their other children.

Steph was sick of waiting for Will to come around. She loved him, but she didn't love the shell of the man he had become. She was sick of doing all the household chores, keeping the children tied together with a smile and the strength that they needed to get through this, and she was so tired of making funeral arrangements that he wouldn't even bother looking at. Zuzu had been his daughter, too, and she had brought so much joy into their lives. She had been so beautiful, so full of life. So when they had diagnosed her with cancer, it hadn't been something that Steph believed. Not until her daughter woke up one morning and couldn't even lift her head from her pillows.

She remembered the way that Zuzu used to walk into the field out back, combing through avalanches of wild flowers. She used to pick the daisies and throw them all around her to give her a 'sweet smelling shower' as she used to say. It was why Steph ordered daisies to be the crux of the plant life at the funeral. She knew that she would be a mess there, and no one would be able to piece her back together except for herself.

She knew that it was unfair to ask it of her children, but she had thought that maybe her husband could do something other than selfishly grieve. Couldn't he see that her heart was shattered? No parent should have to bury their child, everyone knew that, and yet not everyone could grasp how painful all of this was.

When Will came home that night smelling of booze, she felt her temper boil to the surface.

She raged at him, beating her small fists against his broad shoulders as she shrieked like a banshee. Halfway through her cheeks were salted with tears that refused to stop rolling down her cheeks. "Can't you see that I'm hurting, too? When did you become so cold?" she demanded, giving him one last punch in the shoulder before she succumbed to the ocean of transparent rain rolling down her cheeks.

"I'm not cold - my heart's broken just as much as yours is. I know you've been suffering, Steph, so have I. I miss her, I see her in the photographs and reminds me of all our happier times," he gulped. Running his fingers through thick black hair, he brushed tears out of his dark eyes. "I know you've been struggling. It might not be much, but I arranged for a sitter during the viewing. It's bad enough that they have to be a the funeral . . . I don't think Ronnie, Virginia, Hazel, and Christopher ought to be the viewing, too."

She found herself forgiving him more easily than she promised herself. She nodded. "You're right she agreed," with a watery smile.

He gave her a gentle, threadbare kiss. "We'll get through this, somehow," he assured her, holding her tightly in his arms.

"We'll get through this," she chorused, holding onto him for strength she didn't think she could summon forth any longer.


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Linda Crate is a Pennsylvanian native born in Pittsburgh yet raised in the rural town of Conneautville. She has a Bachelor's in English-Literature from Edinboro University. Her poetry and short stories have been published in several magazines.