Member-only story
The Long Winter
The house wasn’t big, but it was built on a sweeping hill that looked down into a valley. In every direction one could see treeless, rolling hills — farm country in the southernmost part of Minnesota. Corn would be planted in the coming weeks. The side of the house that faced the valley was mostly glass and the view was beautiful, even on cold days.
This day was cold. It was a Thursday.
Tom sat on a stool in his living room facing out a large picture window. He saw his reflection in the glass. He was 43, light brown hair with gray here and there. Balding in the back, but he didn’t see that in the window. He was wearing a thick green, wool sweater and a pair of worn denim jeans he had for many years. He got the sweater for Christmas in 2017. It was a gift from his only child, Lily.
He made eye contact with himself for a moment then continued to gaze into the valley below. It was nearing the end of April, but it was still cold outside and snowing. The wind was toothy as it blew. Then it rested before picking up again. It howled regularly enough to remind Tom it was there.
“I’m still here,” the wind said with a hiss as it found a way into his small house on a hill. The motherless breeze was chaotic and resilient.
Then, at once, everything was silent.
