The Snowstorm

By Lynnette Horn

Al tugs me along the snow-covered road, my hand small in his massive grip. Even through our gloves I can feel his thoughts. You can do it, his grip affirms.  I know my husband as he knows me. The lines that separate us have long faded and we are as one. Right now he is my protector. I can tell by the way he leads me through the drifts, trampling down snow to make a path for my feet. Years ago I would have argued that I could take care of myself, but now his protectiveness only endears him to me all the more.

An artic blast from the north whips across my face. It bites my cheeks and brings tears to my eyes.  I hunker down in my coat, but there's not enough collar to stave off the wind's fury.   White crinoline, falling layer upon layer, veils our surroundings and muffles nature's sounds.  Only the muted wails of the ghostly wind remain. In a moment of panic I look back. How far have we come? Can I still see the car? Is there still time to turn back?  I see nothing but snow.

Even if we could go back what good would it do?  For all the hours we waited, stalled alongside this lonely stretch of I-70, not another car had passed. The road must be impassable; survival is up to us for there'll be no rescue. Al tugs at my hand and I look up into his weather beaten face. Snowflakes cling to his brows and little icicles hang from the corners of his frozen mustache. His eyes, determined but tender, plead, "Don't give up, not now, my love, not yet."  I caress his cheek and nod.  I know he's right. There's no turning back and there's no stopping.  To do either would be certain death. Our only hope is to keep moving.

We continue on, hoping to find life, hoping to find warmth. Time stops or at least no longer holds meaning. Only movement has meaning. Movement is life. The rest of the world fades away; there is only Al and I -- the beating of our hearts, the heaviness of our breath, and the rhythmic shuffle step of our stride.  My muscles ache and feet throb from the cold snow cresting the tops of my shoes and running down into my socks, but this is good.  I remember reading somewhere that frostbite sets in when the throbbing stops. As if clinging to a life preserver, my last vestige of hope, I focus on the pain, willing it to stay.

I think about bears hibernating and how nice it would be to sleep, to just curl up with Al in a ditch to protect us from the wind and snuggle in each other's arms. My lids become heavy.  I cannot sway my thoughts from sleep. I struggle to keep my eyes open but it's a losing battle. Al must be sharing my struggle but he keeps leading us forward. We continue on zombie-like -- half awake, half asleep.

Flashing emergency lights illumine the snow up ahead. Another stranded car, the first we'd seen. I don't notice until we are almost on top of it. As reality dawns, Al and I quicken our pace. Are there people inside? Maybe they've reached someone by cell and help is on the way.  Al breaks free and runs ahead. "Hello!" he shouts, "Hello!" But no one replies.

At the car he wipes the snow from the window and looks inside. I come up alongside him; he grabs me to block my view.  He's too late. Two gray-white bodies sit in the front seat, an elderly man and woman. I look at their peaceful faces and envy them. The woman lies in the crook of the man's neck, her lips frozen into an eternal smile.  They had died with dignity, not by slow rotting disease or senility. No nursing home or sterile hospital had pulled them apart. They had hastened with grace to the other side together in each other's arms.

Death beckons me. I gaze at the inviting back seat and want to surrender, to stretch across its cushions in my husband's arms and give in to sleep. But Al shakes me, his eyes pleading, "Don't give up, not now, my love, not yet."  I cry silent tears but allow him to pull me along. It's easier not to resist; easier to just keep moving.

Beyond the snow bank around the next bend, we see haloed lights glimmering in the distance. We embrace through joyful tears, and then as if with one heart, one mind, we both look back at our trampled trail. If only the old couple had known they were so close to safety.

"How did you know?" I ask.

"I didn't; I just knew it wasn't our time," Al brings my gloved fingers up to his lips. His stiff, brittle mustache doesn't detract from the tenderness of his kiss. He squeezes me one last time, then we head hand in hand for the lights, to civilization, to warmth, to life.

(Won an honorable mention and appeared in Voyages)