coldness

It's cold. There's nothing else to it. It's cold. But nonetheless, Bub must be walked: he demands it, gets in your face and dances and woofs until you can't see anything but white fur, flying. Even though we were leaving the house last night for two-dollar pitchers and 25-cent chicken wings at a local bar (we were supporting our Kathy, who supports her UNC, and the guys must have their chicken wings), we walked him first. I enjoy my walks with my husband, even in the icicle-wind-- it gives us time to talk to each other with no distractions.

The house next door has been achingly empty the last few weeks. Even though they're trouble-makers (you can see it in all four of their little blond-topped faces), I was beginning to miss the boys next door, even more so because of the reason for their prolonged absence. As we topped the hill on our descent home, they were there, all four of them, riding various wheeled things, bikes and scooters and a miniature car, in the cul-de-sac in front of our houses. Their grandmother's car was in the driveway. Well, three of them were riding. The fourth, the littlest at about 5, took a hard tumble, his bike crashing on top of him. 

I'm not good with children. My natural reaction is not to run to him, but to run for the nearest adult (because, of course, I am not one of those), namely his grandmother. I called to the oldest boy, at about age 11, who was already at his brother's side, if he was ok, but he just looked at me. So much sadness on his stern face. Stranger? No, that's the woman next door. But still he didn't say a word, so I turned onto his sidewalk, rang his doorbell, and his grandmother came to the door in her blue-socked feet. I told her the little one had fallen. She walked out, in her socks, to check on him.

She told me their father passed on Saturday. I knew it had to have happened, it had been any day now for a while. The boys followed their grandmother inside, all of them rubbing their hands together for warmth, the oldest with his hand on the smallest one's head.

I don't know these boys. I didn't know their father, only met him briefly, and I've had just a few small, neighborly conversations with their mother. I have nothing helpful to say to them as I have no idea what they're feeling. They don't want to be talked to anyway, I suppose, not by someone they don't really know. They'll get enough of that. I can't imagine not having my father in my life. If I had lost him, at any age these boys are now, I would be different. I would be unrecognizable. 

The cold is fitting. A sunny Spring day, flowers buzzing with bees, dandelion seeds in the wind, the kind of day that beckons little boys to their backyards and their balls and bikes, the kind of day they used to spend playing basketball with their father, would have been a second slap in the face. So let it be cold for them, let it keep them inside, near their mother and grandmother's warmth. I don't pray, but all my good energy flows to those boys right now, those four little blond boys.