The Old Man and the Snow

“You shouldn’t be here,” Eric said. His voice was pain. Dry. The young man closed his eyes, pressed fingers to his throat near his collarbone, winced and then cleared it. The pain stayed, but he could breathe. There he stood, eyes closed, listening. Ancient oak planks creaked and groaned, stressed by the pressure of an icy, hollow baritone wind. He thought it sounded more like an old ship than a cabin. When Eric opened his eyes, his grandfather was no longer there. The young man’s attention snapped from the wooden walls blanketed in shadow, to the iron stove burning hot and finally to the oversized bay window. There, the old man stood, right hand clasping his left wrist behind his back. His grandpa wore white pajama tops and bottoms that Eric thought looked as soft as the snow piling outside the window. Warmer too, he hoped. Eric frowned at how pale the old man looked. Sickly.

The glass rattled only inches from Grandpa’s face. His rosy nose and open mouth fogged it, but not enough to obscure his view. He’d always liked the view from that spot. In the summer, when nature’s blood ran warm, he’d observed a diverse range of animals sprinting, living, eating. And in the winter, when things were gentle, he’d watch some of the same animals as they’d shuffle through piles of snow as if lost, looking for any green to eat so that they might feel that warmth again. He sighed, and his shoulders sank as nothing but puffs of brutal white obscured any actual view. The only thing staring back was his own translucent reflection.

“I said, you shouldn’t be…”

“I know what you said,” Grandpa cut through his kin’s voice. His eyelids, heavy from nearly a century’s worth of pain, closed, and he shook his head. He couldn’t bring himself to look at his grandson. Not yet.

Eric rolled his eyes and took a few steps. His fingers found a chess set, which sat atop a homemade table on a blue and white checkered tablecloth. The young man’s fingertip ran over the side of an old, whittled pawn. It was nearly perfect in every way, except for a diagonal cut across the head. He chuckled to himself, shaking his head at a memory nearly lost. “I remember making these.” His throat was so rough, he thought if the problem continued, he’d have to make some tea. The pawn in his fingers was a mismatch to the rest. It was a walnut tree, cut down to size and carved to perfection just outside of the door to this cabin that provided the resources to its making. Birch for the white pieces.

When Eric was ten, he’d trotted back to the cabin to escape the summer heat after a day of laborious imaginations. With sweat on his brow and a stick in his hand, he found his grandfather in a rocking chair on the porch. The man seemed old then. In fact, to Eric’s eyes, the man always seemed to be eighty-five. Even then, his grandfather moved slowly, concentrated. Between his timeworn fingers in one hand was a piece of wood, and a whittling knife in the other.

“Can I help,” young Eric had asked.

No, was on the tip of his grandfather’s tongue, but he could never resist those giant, doe eyes. “You ever used a knife before? It’s important to move slow. Take your time. You’re always in such a rush, but you can’t be with this. This could change a life. Disfigure it. Or worse.”

Sure enough, but a minute later, the carving knife was on the floor, blood running down its edge and a cut running across the head of the pawn. Eric shrieked, and it was his grandfather who took care of him, stitching the youngster’s finger.

A piece of wood popped in the furnace, and Eric jumped out of the memory. He stared at the iron stove, then back at the chessboard on the red and white tablecloth. He placed the pawn back onto the board and turned his thumb over. There, where the memory had carved its place into his thumb long ago, was a thin thread just a shade darker than the rest of his skin. The scar made him think of pain. The pain made him think of his grandfather.

“Grandpa, you,” Eric’s throat burned, a dry heat cutting across it. He grabbed a bottle of water and poured some into a pot and placed it on the cast-iron stove with a tea bag in it. Clearing his throat again, just enough to speak, he finished his sentence. “You really shouldn’t be here.”

Grandpa looked past his reflection in the window, at the blur of Eric behind him. He couldn’t make out the man’s features, but he could make the shape of his shaggy hair. “Why are you here, Eric? No one ever comes here.” The old man shifted, folding his arms on his chest. “This isn’t right. None of this is right.”

Eric’s eyes narrowed. His boot stomped forward. The pot on the furnace hissed, boiling. The wind shook and pressed hard against the walls. “And what do you know about right?” He stopped, studying his grandfather’s hair, thin enough to see to his scalp, pocked with age marks. He loosened the fists he hadn’t realized were at his sides. Eric shook his head as if the fight wasn’t worth it and turned his attention to the pot. When he reached forward, the handle singed his palm. Quickly he let go, waving his hand in pain as the metal pot went clanging across the orange glow of the floor.

“You never were too good with your hands. Got better with a knife though, didn’t you?”

Eric pursed his lips and looked to the bay window. “What’s that supposed to,” He couldn’t speak. The burn across his throat was too much. He coughed and took a drink of water from the bottle. Even the sip was pain. He needed that tea. Between his throat and the chill running through his bones, he thought for sure he was sick. Eric finished his sentence, saying, “And what was that supposed to mean?”

His grandfather turned, and tears slowly slid down his leathery face, following the trails of age lines.

Eric stepped forward slowly and said, “What’s the matter, Grandpa?”

Grandpa’s lip quivered, and his folded arms moved to his quivering lips. Through them, he said, “Why does it hurt? It shouldn’t still hurt.”

Eric went to speak, but the pain stopped him. His fingers touched the base of his throat, and he stepped closer to the bay window. His grandfather stepped out of the way. There, reflected his shaggy hair, big brown eyes, long neck and a fresh cut running horizontally from one side to the other. The hollow wind groaned deeper, but settled. The creaking of the cabin ceased. It was quiet except for Eric’s grandfather’s weeping and the small hush of the fireplace. He thought of the knife carving the pawn and looked back. He couldn’t see the chessboard, nor the other side of the cabin. Everything was dark, save for the gentle fireplace, his grandfather, and the bay window. He looked out of the window. Snow covered every inch of vision, but it settled and fell gently. Everything was white.

“I know I shouldn’t be here,” Grandpa started, “but I needed to say goodbye.”

Eric cleared his throat again. He realized there was no pain. All the pain of the years. The mental torment. Gone. He smiled. “It doesn’t hurt, Grandpa.”

“Are you sure?” The old man’s voice trembled.

“I’m sure.” Eric rubbed his fingers over the wound. The reflection was violent, but his fingers felt nothing but smooth skin. He smiled, eyeing his grandfather’s reflection. “I’m sure,” he reiterated.

Old, rough fingers wiped the tears from an old face. “I know I shouldn’t be here,” Grandpa started.

Eric chuckled. “You shouldn’t.”

“But I didn’t want you to be alone.” the old man finished. He studied the beautiful face of his grandson, and nodded. “Goodbye, Eric.”

They turned to one another, eye to eye. Eric smiled one last time. “Goodbye, Grandpa.”

Eric watched his grandfather go, one step at a time, each an effort. The ancient body moved away from the window, past the fireplace and through the darkness into nothing, fading.

Eric turned to the windows, they were opened.

He stepped out into the snow, fading into the long night.