January

She can’t see anything out of her right eye now. Soon enough she’ll be seeing angels, but they pretend for now, ignore the soft ominous brush of their feathery wings to laugh and drink their midday drinks with an old movie playing halfheartedly. Black and white, like the scenes from their memories.

The snow keeps falling. More snow than they’ve seen in years. It’s not like it used to be, they say. Not like when they escaped to Florida in ’77 during the blizzard that killed some of their neighbours. We can all agree that the snow looks better under the glow of Christmas lights. It has a certain charm. Now, it just looks bleak. The skies heaven-white and endless.

The film is from the 1940s. They spent their rural, post-war childhoods watching such things, on smaller television screens. There are ivory candles burning, gifts from previous Christmases. Black soot left behind on my fingers as I light them, to keep them company. To fill the space. The number of hours I can stay are getting smaller and they know it. I linger in my black coat by the door. She has said that without my presence, the angels creep closer. In ways, I have already grieved.

There’s the white January light, filtered through the old blinds. The dark, murderous ice on the road outside. The black dog curled at her swollen feet. He’s a good dog and he rarely takes chase, but he might chase those angels down.