Reflection

At the end of the day I pull on my boots and coat, hook the leash to Byrdie's collar and head out into the great white night. The trees and ground glow and even through darkness I can make out the shape of each branch heavy with snow against the dark white sky. The rain began early but by midmorning transformed into big flakes of wet snow. Even though it snowed all day, we have only an inch or two to show for it.

The neighborhood is quiet and smells of thick wood smoke. The air looks saturated with it; my neighbors are taking advantage of a cold night. We don't have as many in Colorado as other parts of the country and it seems I'm not the only one who notices. I follow the familiar trail next to the train tracks and Byrdie bounds out ahead of me in search of any sign of life buried beneath the thin layer of snow. I keep a brisk pace along the tracks but slow when I reach the curve that opens to a field lined with cottonwoods. Coyotes, not far from me, cry out as they search for prey. I stop and listen, once again astounded by the rawness of nature and how it butts right up against this developed world. Beyond this field is a busy country road with constant travelers. And beyond that, more open space. I'm sure that's where I'd find these creatures of the night.

We continue walking and small icy pellets start to plink against my face. They melt on my warm skin and my face is wet and cold. We walk past the empty neighborhood park, a popular destination when my two year old is along for the walk. There is one single set of tracks ahead of me on the trail, but they are slightly snowed over and I know that my fellow traveler has long since gone home. And now through the wooded area on the paved trail, I slow once more. I see a teepee someone has made with downed branches just below the trail. My mind wanders to how I might survive a cold night there if I needed to before I am jerked back into reality by a sharp noise that pierces the quiet night. I stop walking and listen, trying to identify this new sound. It's quiet and distant at first and grows in strength over and over, like the circling light from a lighthouse. The squeal is that of wet wheels on wet tracks; the train is approaching. And then the winter's night symphony begins; the wheels and tracks start in quietly, gaining strength as the song goes, the coyotes cry out over the top, and the approaching train's low familiar thrum serves as the bass section. It's beautiful.

At the end of the wooded trail we circle back toward home. Back to the familiar streets I've memorized on my walks: McKinley, Sunland, Senator, and finally my own, Paramount. A few houses are lit now, but mine is the brightest at the end of the block, just left of center in the cul-du-sac. I step inside and the warmth quickly envelopes me, pressing against my cold cheeks. I shake off the wet coat and boots and settle into the comfortable warmth of home.

The snow today was preceded by rain. And while it rained this morning I sat by our big front window and watched the grey morning light. I thought of my aunt Beth and her last days and how we all spent them on the ninth floor oncology unit staring out into another grey winter world a year ago. Tears fell as freely as the rain and I let sadness and despair take over for a little while. It's been a year, but the pain of her loss is still almost as sharp as when we learned that she had only days left in this world. I have wept many times before, though I admit it has been for her children and for the unfairness of it all; hardly have I allowed myself to grieve over my own loss.

My aunt played such a profound role in my life. Growing up, she was practically my second mother. My cousin Jessie and I are one month apart in age and lived just a few blocks from each other throughout our childhood. From a young age I'd walk the distance between our houses, through the park and over the bridge, and finally through a school yard to their house. I spent countless days there, playing ponies and growing up with Jessie. She was my best friend. But it wasn't only that: Aunt Beth and Uncle Jim's house was one of the greatest comforts to me as a child.

They were always there with their big loving presence, and when my own family went through difficult changes, I knew I could depend on them. Uncle Jim, with his big bellowing voice, would hoot and holler and make all the kids giggle and scream. Aunt Beth, so loving and funny, always had a way of coaxing a smile out of you. I remember one particularly bad day for me as an adolescent when I was so upset by an argument with my mom's fiance that I just shut down. I wouldn't talk to anyone. I went on for hours this way, staying silently still not making eye contact with anyone, quiet tears streaming down my face. It was finally Aunt Beth who convinced me break my silence. She was always there. She quietly battled her own demon--cancer--for fourteen years while she took care of everyone else. And she'd have had it no other way.

In the hospital, days before her death I did the difficult task of calling her family and closest friends to break the news. I was astounded by the sheer number of people who shared as deep a connection with her as I did. Family from far away, bowling league friends and Y Cares staff expressed their raw emotions with me, brokenhearted. Her love for people and exuberance for life, even through fourteen years of terminal illness, was abundant. She is one of the strongest women I have ever known.

If I am thankful for anything in this whole unfair world, it is for her death bringing family together again. While she did the hard, private work of dying in those last days, she was surrounded by family, by love. And because she waited for a while before going, there was room for laughter and happiness in a time often shrouded in despair. Old relationships were strengthened and new relationships grew out of this trying time, like determined roots pushing down through the hard earth. We were rooted together by the loss of someone we all loved. I think she meant for it to be that way.

I am thankful, selfishly, that I could be there in the end. And I believe I was there because of a small miracle. Home over a long weekend for Jessie's baby shower, I was scheduled to fly back to Colorado on Monday. But miraculously, in the midst of receiving the news that Aunt Beth didn't have much time left, my flight was canceled. So I was there. I helped her children, my cousins, pack her things and bring her to the hospital. I was there to support them when they learned their mother's days were numbered, and I was there to see her take her final, peaceful breaths. I was able to say goodbye. I count myself lucky for that.

The snowy walk tonight helped to center me, as my walks always have a way of doing. I will be alright, and as time passes the sharp pain of loss will dull, little by little. I tell it to myself and silently send out a prayer for healing for all those who need it.