K. Z. Richards

I don’t know about you, but it seems like we’ve just gotten past fifth winter where I live, and since Google tells me there is more snow coming next week, I guess it’s not over yet. It’s really a shame to look at my dry, shoveled sidewalks and know that it will soon be time to shovel and salt all over again, but when I look up at the towering mountains that border my backyard, I’m reminded that winter is not all bad.

In honor of this endless winter, I want to share an excerpt of one of my short stories with you, set in a cold and wintry, yet cozy, mountain home.

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Taken from “A Season of Sentiments”

Samuel didn’t resent winter, exactly. He didn’t mind the snow banks that buried their front door, the chill that blew through the cracks in their white pine walls, or the canyon road closures that kept them nestled in the mountains for weeks at a time. With perfect clarity, he could recall their first snowfall as newlyweds. Sammy, she had called him then, her painted lips forming his name with a reverence and excitement that had long since left her frail frame. He could even still picture her silver snowflake earrings, hardly visible against the white powder that coated her knitted red beanie and long black locks.

Now, winter was stark and colorless. Now, the only silver his wife wore was in the sheet of gray that claimed her once dark hair, faded locks that, to Samuel, reflected an ever-fading mind.

Samuel sat at the kitchen table, with his eyes closed in an attempt to shut out the gray sunlight that poured in from their kitchen window. He considered again his wife’s youth that winter and the grin that used to flash across her creamy complexion when he’d enter the room.

A particular memory came to mind, a time when he’d returned from a morning jog, sweaty, his face overdue for a shave, and any muscle tone worth noticing hidden beneath a mud-caked, oversized t-shirt. She was standing in their small, empty kitchen prodding a misshapen pancake with a spatula, perhaps deciding if it was worth keeping, and when her emerald eyes looked up to meet his, they sparkled with an exuberance befitting the entrance of a king. But there had stood only Samuel. Dirty, plain Samuel.

The moment was beautiful. Unforgettable. And yet, now, as Samuel pulled his face away from the window to cast a glance at their sorry, year-worn kitchen, he could not remember what became of the moment. Did they wander to the upstairs bedroom, resolving to make breakfast wait? Did he pull her into his arms and place a salty kiss on her lips? Or did he decide to wash away his stench first?

Determined to remember, Samuel pushed his chair away from the kitchen table and trumped his way to the stairs at the end of the hall.

“Your coffee will get cold, Charles,” his wife mumbled across the table from his empty chair, and Samuel grumbled a response without slowing his pace.

“It’s Samuel, Susan. And you forget that I drink only decaf.”

Quick, but heavy, footsteps took him to their bedroom loft where what little warmth the cottage held gathered beneath the low, slanted ceiling, threatening to escape. There was a time that they would have wrestled in this pocket of warmth long into the late morning hours when the sun finally began to heat the rest of the house, but like every other pleasant memory, such times were just that: memories.

Samuel frowned as he knelt at his bedside, hands reaching beneath the bed frame for an object his fingertips knew better now than his wife’s paling skin. His fingers easily found the small cedar chest, not much larger than a shoebox, and he hastily slid it into view.

A small golden hinge held the chest closed, but years of frequent openings had bent it into the shape of Samuel’s thumb, and the wood’s surface was slick and shiny with oily fingerprints.

Samuel lifted the chest onto his bed and flipped the hinge and lid open in a single motion. Inside, shiny, white crystals the size of robin eggs cast a soft white glow into the bedroom, their surfaces reflecting Samuel’s eager blue eyes, darting between each one. Some shone brighter than others, almost too brightly for Samuel to look at, but some cast barely a drop of light.

Samuel began to sift through the crystals with his cupped, aged hands, holding each handful for a few moments before gently spilling them back into the chest. Each time a crystal touched his skin, its surface would fade from white to clear, and then hazy images would begin to take form. Some showed the smiling visages of a man and woman—his parents—huddled around a campfire, hiking through an autumn wood, clapping and congratulating Samuel on a job well done. But most showed Susan’s face—shy, sparkling eyes stealing glances at Samuel and then sinking into blushing cheeks.

At last Samuel found the crystal he sought. Susan faded into view, spatula in hand, her eyes locked on Samuel’s and widening as he approached her. And then the crystal shone only darkness except for the faint glow of sunlight behind his eyelids. Susan’s face appeared again, smiling, but with arms extended to hold her husband at a distance. Her lips mouthed something about burning the pancakes, and then a hairy and very sweaty arm reached into view and removed the pan from the burner. The corners of Susan’s lips twitched, her face grew closer, and then the crystal showed only darkness again, interrupted occasionally by glimpses of Samuel’s hairy arms removing layers of Susan’s clothing.

Samuel watched the memory again and again, memorizing every detail he had lost over time, the crystal growing brighter each time until it was too bright to give another glance. With the memory freshly imprinted on his mind, he clutched the smooth gem to his chest, as if feeling its warmth against his skin would bring back the feel of his wife’s velvet skin.

“Thomas, are you home?” his wife’s voice echoed up the stairs, and Samuel forced his eyes open and cleared his throat.

“Samuel. It’s Samuel,” he moaned and returned the memory to the chest.