Indigo Winter

Steam from the simmering pot of chili fogged the windows of our house. I loved days like this. I felt safely cocooned inside with my daughter while the snow piled up outside. The days ahead would be like a mini vacation. Schools would be closed, appointments cancelled.

As I ironed Richie's work shirts Callie lay on the floor with her coloring books and crayons. She was wrapped in her favorite quilt, so frayed the edges were starting to separate. The colors had long since paled. She'd finally stopped looking out the window every three minutes.

I had to admit I shared her excitement for the first snowfall this year. Tomorrow will mean sledding and building snowmen. The three of us will make snow angels and later look out the window and admire our little winged family. Callie will get to wear her new snowsuit and the matching pink boots. We'll play outside until our noses turn red, and our toes go numb.

I finished the last shirt and hung it in our closet with the others.

Our bedroom was just off the "great room" as Richie jokingly referred to the combination kitchen/dining/living room since we'd started house hunting. Apparently, our modest layout was now trendy, albeit on a much smaller scale than the ones we'd half-heartedly been looking at.

This was meant to be our "starter home," but we'd gotten very comfortable here. It's an easy commute to everything, especially Richie's job with the city's road crew. We are reluctant to give it up. It's a tight fit for us now, but I think of it a snug. We've considered ourselves luck to be building equity while living in a mecca of winter activity.

When the baby comes in the spring, we can squeeze him in for a few months, but then we'll need more room. We'll find out for sure at our next appointment, but I'm convinced I'm carry a boy. I picture a miniature version of my husband, and my heart swells, just like it does every time I look at him add Callie.

"Mommy, what color should I make her dress?" Callie asked as I stirred the pot on the stove. I hope the chili will thicken up a little more. Richie likes it so thick he can stand his spoon up in it, and Callie insists she does too. Of course, she'd eat dirt if her daddy said it was good.

The two of them have their own special bond. All I have to compare it to is my relationship with my own father. I love him, and I know he loves me. He'd certainly provided for me until I'd left home, but I don't ever remember him swinging me up in his arms and planting kisses all over me until I giggled like Richie does with Callie. My dad never put a Band-Aid on my knee or a barrette in my hair, or a whole list of other things that Richie does for our daughter.

"How about blue? That's your daddy's favorite color," I answered after pretending to give it great thought.

"My favorite color too," she picked out the Indigo Blue, the one that matches her eyes and her father's. It is the smallest crayon in the box. I wonder if our son will have those eyes and how his presence will change our family dynamic.

I put the ironing board away and head once again to peek out the window and get a glimpse of the weather. I cleaned off one pane with the sleeve of my sweatshirt. It was coming down harder. The houses across the street were fuzzy blurs. Hopefully it will stop overnight, as the forecasters promised and the three of us will be out in it tomorrow. Those are the best days. When the temperature stays cold and the snow stays soft. When it clings to everything and the sun makes it all sparkle. When the world feels gentler, and quieter than it really is.

Snow has played an important role in our lives. Richie and I met on a ski slope, both impressed by the other's skill. Richie proposed on a walk through the downtown square. I'll remember the snow in his eyelashes long after I forget the words he used. Callie was born during a snowstorm. We'd left plenty of time to get to the nearby hospital, and once sheltered, it just felt perfect.

"When's Daddy coming home?" she asked, coming to join me at the window, pulling the quilt tight around herself. We both stared, transfixed by the white blanket outside growing thicker by the minute. I pulled myself away and headed back to the kitchen. The clock showed it was after five. I expected Richie home by six. He'll eat, then sleep for a couple of hours and go back out to plow. This was his favorite part of the job. He said it was like playing in the snow with a big truck. No matter much overtime he put in clearing the roads, he was happy as any kid to spend hours out in the cold, white crystals, doing all sorts of winter sports. Richie could ski and snowboard like a pro. He made snow castles for Callie, and intricate sculptures the neighbors marveled at. This year he has plans for a snow slide that starts on the roof of the shed.

"Soon," I answered, "do you want to help me make him some corn muffins?"

Callie came dragging the quilt behind like an extra-long cape. we both heard footsteps on the front porch and turned towards the door, then back to each other like an old vaudeville routine. I stretched my mouth to a big surprised "O" and Callie mimicked me. We seldom get visitors at the front entry.

I opened the door to find three men standing there. The one in front had been about to knock so he dropped his fisted hand to his side. He seemed familiar, but I couldn't place him. They all stood silent causing me to think they were at the wrong house, conditions making it hard to read house numbers.

'Can I help you?" I asked

"Mrs. Burroughs, I'm Ed Fowler, the road crew foreman..."

I stared past them at the swirling flakes as my world ended in a blizzard of snow and words from strange men that made no sense to me.

"An accident...the snow...no one's fault...the snow...poor visibility...so sorry..."