The Joy of Rambling

I wrote this piece recently for a writing assignment dealing with setting. It’s a reflection on a moment in time about eight years ago.

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Outside the sliding glass door of our lower-level family room, the snow is quietly falling, and I am mesmerized. My husband and I have lived in this home at the top of a hill for eleven years. I’ve witnessed endless sunsets and morning squirrel races but never stop marveling at the quick change of seasons here in Minnesota, as red and orange leaves become brown and crispy before violently tossed away by winter gusts.

The toasty atmosphere in here, supplied by the gas fireplace, contradicts the white fluffy speckles illuminated by the outside porch light. Beyond the flurries that drift peacefully to the ground, is darkness too profound for the dim light’s reach—an expanse of black that might frighten me had I not witnessed the green grass that carpeted my backyard six months ago. 

I have just finished teaching five back-to-back lessons on the white five-foot grand piano behind me, and I am spent. Upstairs I hear the perpetual drone of the History Channel entertaining my husband as he waits for me to finish my work and join him. 

Moving to the soft leather couch still warm from the mom who sat listening to her son struggle through Old MacDonald moments ago, I slouch comfortably in and study the drifting snow, sometimes falling hard and furious, sometimes meandering lazily. 

It reminds me of myself, I think. Energy to burn when motivated by a passion; Trickles of listless thoughts in between, like now. 

Why, oh why do I have to leave this warm, sleepy escape? I moan to myself. 

But I know why. In a few minutes I’ll hear the clomp of his feet making their way down to my nest. He will be hungry, or lonely, or confused. This is what dementia looks like, and I am no match for its relentless pull.

My knees creak as I stand from the couch and move to the slider. With one last longing look, I turn off the outside light, then the fireplace, then the dimmed recessed ceiling lights. Unconsciously, my back stiffens and I brace myself to enter the cold, windowless hallway that leads to the stairs, and my destiny. 

Upstairs, the night sky has turned the living room inky with only the glimmer of the TV’s screen casting flickering flashes over my husband’s face. He is slumped peacefully in his chair, fast asleep. I take a blanket from the sofa and gently cover him, watching as he emits soft snoring sounds. I am confident he could stay this way for quite some time.

Relieved, and a bit elated, I turn toward the stairs and feel the thrill of more uninterrupted time awaiting me. As I touch the railing that will lead me back down to the peace and stillness of a cozy winter night, I hear a quiet “Hey” from behind me.

And now I am a caregiver, thoughts of my warm escape left behind as I turn to face him. 

“What’s up?” My voice sounds foreign to me.

“Got anything to eat?” He asks.

“Sure. Why don’t I fix us some dinner.” I reply, now in the practiced, cheerful voice that comes automatically when speaking to him. I head into the kitchen and open the fridge, turning bright lights on as I go.

So close! I think to myself. But I can’t risk allowing my thoughts to dig in and make a home there.

Instead, I assemble leftover turkey, gravy and potatoes, and begin filling our plates for the microwave, grateful for the few minutes of solitude I was able to grab before life butted back in.