Cold. Unrelentingly cold. Dry unforgiving temps have deeply permeated my world this winter. I can’t quite seem to find the warmth. This past weekend was no exception. A cold that cuts one in half. Four degrees the high.
Last Sunday we took a drive. My husband Jon and me. Out to lunch as I have been recuperating for many days, but I had reached my limit of being housebound. Despite the weather out I would go.
We travelled the hilly windy roads of Vermont. The scenery reassuringly beautiful. The landscape a blanket of white. Purity. Untainted. Clouds of snow wildly and forcefully blew and swirled over the vast uninterrupted landscape. February certainly tests ones resolve and claims of loving to live so far north.
On we travelled and crossed a bridge linking Vermont to New Hampshire. The wide river covered in snow and ice except for the deep current snaking along while exposing a dark brooding water. Aimlessly traveling and rambling up or downstream. Did it matter?
Our conversation was filled with caution and worry. These past two weeks since the inauguration have felt much like living in an alternate reality. People really voted for this? I anxiously asked Jon. Hoping he could allay my fears but…
We arrived at our destination. Hanover NH. A vibrant college town. Home to Dartmouth College. We parked the car and agreed to walk around a bit before we decided on where to have lunch. As I exited the car I was enveloped in a shocking block of cold.
I lifted my chin while I zipped up my Patagonia down jacket to its full extent stopping just under my chin. I placed cashmere fingerless gloves on my small aging hands. Years of hard work now accented with obvious signs of arthritis. Still, I love my hands for the many artistic journeys they have guided me on. The children they have cared for and the hands they have held.
Finger less gloves were the worst choice I could have made as my fingers immediately reddened in response to the frigid temps. I curled my fingers and folded them comfortably inside the inappropriately thin cashmere gloves intending them to mimic mittens. My patience was thinning too as we walked and talked about the current state of affairs…
The bookstore first. A quick peruse and a purchase. A sweet novel that the cashier was also interested in reading. Out the door and down the street we popped into a restaurant that had just opened a minute or two before us. We decided to eat early more to get out of the cold than being hunger driven. Immediately a warmth encased me as the heavy restaurant door slowly closed while pushing the ever-determined cold back into the street.
The worn wooden floor creaked as we approached the hostess stand. Only a party ahead of us before we were seated near the heat of the brick oven. The restaurant just beginning to fill so people were widely spaced from one another while giving each server their first party of the day.
As we settled into our seats and began to look at the menu a gentleman was being seated just two tables down and to my left. He had rushed in and was quite brusque with the lovely young hostess. Displeased when his fast-flying requests could not all be met. Detailed instructions of his brother’s late arrival were shared in an uncomfortably loud fashion. I was uncomfortable too. A tense energy drove his abrupt movements. He seemed already annoyed. Irritated. Was it just the overwhelming situation many of us are struggling with or something else?
His “younger” brother arrived in a fury. Their familiar genetics made obvious. Complaining of having the flu he tried to control the narrative. It is all about the narrative I think to myself. I am exhausted by the narrative. The older brother began to speak in a pedantic fashion about his distraught younger sibling’s pending divorce. “The writing was always on the wall” he firmly stated while the younger squirmed in his wooden chair. “You know that, right?” he continued. “Yes.” The younger brother considered his words as he lowered his voice in defeat and replied “the writing was always on the wall.” Authority and judgement spilled all over the tan paper covered table as their uncomfortable conversation unfolded…
Silently I agreed …”the writing was always on the wall.”
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