"Are you sure?"
I was.
"I can't talk you out of it?"
He couldn't.
There was nothing he could do but hover anyway. He'd offer scads of well-meant advice that I would tiptoe around like the proverbial bull in a china shop. Things might break.
One collision away from catastrophe.
It wouldn't end well for either of us if he stayed. This was just one of those times misery doesn't love company.
So I kicked him out of the house. I watched him pack a bag with all of his cold-weather gear, his skis, and helmet and told him "Don't let the door hit you on the way out," with all the warmth and concern I could muster.
The annual ski weekend with the guys was finally happening, nearly three years after its pandemic-forced hiatus, and l didn't want him to miss it again.
Especially if missing it meant he'd have to bob along as I weathered the irregular waves of grief.
I've got lots of experience with sadness. It's like watching the ocean roll in on an otherwise unremarkable Tuesday in summer. Even if I turn my back on the sea I know it's unlikely to overwhelm me.
You can only steady yourself. Focus on the sand escaping beneath the soles of your feet and dig in.
I would just breathe. And sleep. And do all the things I'd written down on my list as slowly as I could force myself to go.
I would take all the time I needed starting the moment his car left the driveway.
Which, as luck would have it, was the exact moment my daughter emerged from her room to declare that not only was the temperature sub-arctic but the water coming from the showerhead was only slightly more fluid than icicles.
I checked the thermostat and realized something had to be wrong: the digits claimed the living room was 57 degrees.
So I ran downstairs to the furnace to see what it had to say.
The readout said nothing but the water streaming out from the seams of its casing spoke volumes.
I called his cell phone.
"Hey there. Everything ok?"
In the four minutes he'd been gone he'd somehow made it all the way to Massachusetts, and was currently a rest stop or two away from his destination in Maine.
"Yeah. It's just the heat isn't working and the furnace is leaking. I think I'm going to have to call for a repair."
I knew I'd have to humor him: I'd follow the pipes and turn valves off and on before he'd agree that there wasn't much more I could do.
And three visits from the repair dude between Thursday and Friday nights convinced him there wasn't much he could have done either, besides calling in favors, which he managed to arrange via voice text as his car cruised along 495. By midnight he had friends deliver up all their space heaters, which they line up in the garage nearest the woodpile.
The kids and I would keep the home fires burning (literally) until the furnace part could be procured in three or four business days.
It was surprisingly simple. The woodstove worked some whole house magic, while the tiny little space heaters took the edge of the chill near the plumbing.
We awoke each morning to a warm house. Warmer, in fact, than when its furnace was functional.
And each night the kids and I snuggled into the couch watching movie marathons. It seemed like the most comfortable camping trip ever. We roasted hotdogs and told stories until we couldn't keep our eyes open any longer. Contentment washed over me like a little flash of gold as I banked the fire in preparation for another night's sleep.
Turns out there's quite a bit of solace in knowing there's only so much you can do. And sometimes that's plenty.
No comments:
Post a Comment