Warmer Weather

Sometimes, in February, winter stalls. The temperature on a sunny
day can clamber a few degrees above zero. We laughingly used to call
spells like this 'warmer weather'. The sun sprinkles the south facing
roofs along the street, melting flakes into droplets that dribble over
the gutters in a xylophone symphony. This is not a thaw. It won't be
late March or early April until the thaw sets in. This time of year,
our favourite time of year, is just a gesture, nature's joke before
another chill sets in.

On mornings like these, when sunlight fills the bedroom, the dark, damp
days seem further behind. I can hear child-song thought the
double-glazing. Sam and Christine shouting and laughing with the
neighbour's children out in the street. They seem to know that the
winter's back is broken.

I sit up, a mountain of duvet in the middle of a double bed. Sunlight
pours through the flower-patterned curtains, burning shadows onto the
covers. The curtains and bedspread match. That was Beth's thing,
matching curtains, matching bedspread, towels and bathrobes. That was
her thing. Those things seem so important now, but they never were when
she was here.

I should have changed the curtains. Mum told me to change them. She
wanted me to change everything, but I told her "I'm not ready, not
quite yet." This may be wallowing, but that is my choice. Soon I will
be getting on with my life, but for now let me wallow. I've promised
that I will have everything sorted out by summer. Sorting everything
out will take at least two months, so I must start by Easter. That
gives me six and a half more weeks of winter to feel sorry for myself,
and that's what I intend to do.

Beth and I had been married seven years and three weeks when she died.
The three weeks is important, to me at least. I had, for the first
time, forgotten our anniversary. After seven years, one day I forgot
all about her. It was a gradual thing. The children had been getting
more demanding. Christine's sixth birthday seemed to come so quickly.
Then right away, my father got sick, Sam broke his arm, Beth got
promoted. Everything seemed to happen at the same time and we could
never take a breath. We never grew apart, but our lives ballooned in
the space between us, pushing away from each other.

On our seventh anniversary, I came back from the hospital, dropped my
mother off at her place, turned the car round and headed for home. It
was after twelve by the time I got back to the house. I dropped the
keys in the tub, kicked off my shoes and found a neatly wrapped box on
the table. In my life as a tornado, I'd forgotten my own anniversary. I
fought my shoes back on and hurried to the wide-eyed girl at the
24-hour garage, but the flowers I bought had died by the morning. We
went through the motions of a happy anniversary of course. We made all
the right noises, but I knew and Beth knew that gifts from the
wide-eyed girl could never fill the gap between us.

The next few weeks where filled with doctors and tests and eye-watering
disinfectant. I thought I saw the future so clearly. I was convinced my
father was dying. The sirens grew ever louder, ever higher. I could see
death in the headlights. Life whizzed passed my ears, plunging towards
my father's imminent demise. I knew my enemy, recognised my target. I
was so ready for the inevitable but when the moment came, I was
completely mistaken.

On one ordinary Thursday morning, three weeks after our anniversary,
Beth dropped Christine off a school and took the same route that she
always took to work. Fifteen minutes later, I took a call. I heard the
pitch drop when the siren passed. A strained voice asked me to come to
the hospital. My father? "No, sir, your wife."

I tried blaming my dad. For several months, I was convinced that his
life had been bought with Beth's. Each day that he grew stronger, my
hatred grew a little more. Those were dark, dark times and only
Christine and Sam could touch me. Parents are meant to be strong for
their children, but I was unable to be strong in return. Instead, I
used them to live through those long days of failing light.

In the end, I failed to blame dad. I tiered of allocating blame. When
the anger moved out, I wrapped my vacant heart in dustsheets and boxes
and wrapped myself in cotton wool.

Christmas slid past without feeling. It didn't hurt to hang the
decorations. They could have nailed me to the tree and I wouldn't have
noticed. Everyone wanted to help. They played pass-the-parcel with me,
peeled back a layer and handed the package on until the music stopped.
On the big day, the children had so many presents they managed to loose
themselves for a few hours. We remembered their mother and pretended
not to cry for her. Together we made it through that day.

We made it through the next day too. And, as the days kept coming, we
kept on making it through each one. Now Beth recedes into the darkness
behind me. From this bright February day in our bright bedroom, all I
can make out of her is pinpoints of light.

We will make it though today too, with its crisp blue sky and melting
snow and icicles glinting and degrees above zero and children's
laughter rising from the street. I think we will make it through this
warmer weather too. There may be a chill but we can make it to Easter.
By Easter, I will be ready to sort everything out.