NOTE: This is an on-going story (in ten parts) entitled "The Blizzard Coat." To become more familiar with this entry, be sure to read back posts that entail earlier "parts." This nightmare of a Christmas seemed not to want to end. As the clock on the mantle chimed at half past eleven, Annalie rose from her chair and lifted the sheer curtain with two fingers from the window, before continuing en route to the kitchen. Through clenched teeth she breathed out, “It’s raining,” in two disappointed words. There was a malicious emphasis put on the second word.
Hoping to prove her wrong and that it was actually snow coming down from the sky, all five women went to the curtain and peered through their persistent reflections, past the dark window. Their gazes swept across the lawn and then pierced through the sky, desperately searching for the smallest snowflake. Nope. Everything was covered in the slick shine of rain. The walkway was drenched in water, as if it had been raining for a while. Tiny icicles started to form on the three foot tall plastic candy canes that lit up the front lawn. A shiver broke out across Annalie’s shoulder blades as she returned from the kitchen and joined her sisters. The piercingly loud shrill of the telephone broke a few of the women away from the window, but not Annalie; she still searched between the freezing raindrops, looking for that hint of snow; the smile from an old friend. As her icy blue eyes desperately searched, something in kitchen unexpectedly dropped and there was a sense of panic in the air. The remaining women at the window exchanged curious glances when Annalie's oldest sister, Joy, returned to the living room, her face as white as a sheet. “Annalie…” she began, her hands shaking in emotion. "There was a car accident..."
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If you ever have a broken heart
be sure to visit Mr. Fix-It. He's made a living of mending such things; running a well-known business tailored to his ever-growing clientele. Such visits are never lovely or expected, but his clients are glad for his company and experience in such things. They flock to his storefront, framed in dark wood, which was like a permanent cloud pierced by a large open window that let in buckets of sun-- reminding his clients that hope could always be found even when their faith is gone. Gently he'd take the heart, in all its broken pieces, and place it gingerly in a crystal bowl. He'd reply, "Ah yes, I can help," as he looks down over the basin, through his dark-framed glasses with a concerned and all-knowing gaze. Sadly, broken hearts are his business. As the customer wrings their hands and paces to and fro, worrying and fretting; a weeping of his soul, Mr. Fix-It goes straight to work. Turning his back, he hunches over his work bench on a small stout wooden stool, under a bright lamp that leans over his shoulder, like a master supervising his apprentice. Silently, with measured movements, he goes about his work. His hands move like a dance. His mending tools stand at the ready, like an army awaiting commands. With glue and tape, Mr. Fix-It rearranges the broken pieces of the sufferer's heart. Never again would it look the same. Sweat collects on the brows of both men as one awaits in anguish, and the other mends the fragile pieces that seem to crumble with the slightest touch. The clock on the wall ticks as if the pendulum was pacing in impatience. As the sun casts long shadows across the floorboards of the storefront, the client suddenly ceases his weeping. Warmth comforts his cold limbs and feeling rushes inside of his shell. And there is Mr. Fix-It, bathed in the setting sun, as the tortured client lifts his chin: a whisper of hope. Mr. Fix-It stands, cradling the mended heart in his arms like a newborn. "It is done," he says and presents to the anguished man. "It's not the same," says the client, his lips faulted but his eyes spark with life once more. "No," says Mr. Fix-It, shaking his head. He takes a deep breath--news he never liked to give-- "And it never will be again." Before the client gets dismayed, Mr. Fix-It reassures him, "It is the same, just rearranged. It is stronger now, moreso than before. But it is also fragile before it gets strong. That's how these things go." Slowly, the client nods and takes his heart tenderly into his own hands, he cradles it and rocks back and forth; second chances born again "Can you make it unbreakable?" asks the man. "Cast it in iron or gold?" His eyes look hopeful as he looks up from his patched-up bundle. Mr. Fix-It frowns--a question heard too often. He shakes his head and wisps of gray hair agree with his movement. "No," he whispers. "Only you can do that. Through forgiveness and taking chances. Surviving in the darkness." A bottom lip quivers as the client nods. With a gentle touch to the sensitive heart, the man moves to leave, "We'll be strong again," he whispers, gingerly tucking away his heart, as he walks into the dusk-covered streets. "In time we'll love again," he says before slipping into a lullaby and disappearing into a new life. NOTE: This is an on-going story (in ten parts) entitled "The Blizzard Coat." To become more familiar with this entry, be sure to read back posts that entail earlier "parts." Usually the Christmas season was a time of relaxation and gratitude in Annalie's family. Instead of hurrying from shop to shop to collect presents for the family, the women would stroll gaily through the snow, a smile across their lips. This Christmas was different though. Lights were hung outside, trees were cut down, and fire wood was chopped without one flake of snow in sight. Still, as the family gathered for the holiday, there was blind hope; a sort of dull electric current emanated from the house.
As the hours ticked by, the anticipation of a surprise snowfall hung anxiously in the air. Every Bailor woman took turns glancing out a window every ten minutes hoping, waiting for white specks to trickle down from the clouds. The lack of their seasonal topping made each woman impatient and restless, which made the holiday almost unbearable for the men. Her mother’s famous Chunky Chicken Pot Pie was served for dinner, as was tradition. It caused all the children to flap their arms and stomp their feet while singing “Do the Funky Chunky Chicken with meeee!” Regrettably, this only built onto the mounting headaches of every adult in the room. Though the pot pie was delicious and satiated most of the women's anxiety for a few moments, Annalie’s sister, Jane, had a painful craving for her asparagus-and-marshmallows-wrapped-in-an-Eggo-waffle sandwich to tame her screaming pregnant taste buds. Jane's husband, Jack, wasted no time in offering to get out of the house and run to the store for his wife. "No, no, I'll go," he said to the other men and jumped up in jubilation at the opportunity. His stocking feet padded against the white carpeting as he rushed to the foyer. “Where are you going?” Eddie asked Jack as he descended the staircase. Eddie had just spent the past hour putting Mason to sleep in a quiet bedroom upstairs. “The baby is demanding is own menu, wanna come with me?” Jack asked and stole a glance beyond his shoulder into the living room. The Bailor women sat quiet, cross-legged--some with a foot bouncing in impatience--and all stealing glances out the picture window. Jack didn’t even bother to button up his coat or tie his shoe laces. He had one foot out the door before Eddie agreed in carefully contained excitement. The rest of the men glowered in jealousy from Eddie and Jack’s freedom. The curiously long time that passed in their absence was spent in heavy silence around the fireplace. The children had been forced to go to bed, although once in a while there were muffled whispers that escaped from behind the door of the den. The relatively new Bailor women—the wives of both of Annalie’s brothers—occassionally tried to make small talk and liven the situation, but when that failed they sought refuge in the family room to watch the last installment of the "A Christmas Story" marathon on television. A soft, soothing voice on the radio delightfully shared listener's Christmas stories on a LiteFM radio station. It drifted through the silence and sighs between each woman. It had to have been the first Christmas that their Minnesota hometown ever experienced the lack of snow, but each woman stayed awake stubbornly, waiting for their white Christmas. |
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