The Snowstorm

I called 911. I called the moment it happened.

The operator told me that she could not send an ambulance in the storm. I pleaded, but she was resolute. They could not come because the snow was too deep, the roads closed, the storm too strong. Nothing could get through the snowstorm. What was so beautiful but minutes ago had transformed into a bulwark against rescue, a behemoth committed to our isolation. I didn't know what to do. I could hear the operator's voice, distant and hazy. She was trying to help. She was giving me directions. Maybe, had I listened, had I tried, my wife would be alive today. The voice crackled through the receiver, but I was afraid. Keep pressure on the wound, and find something to bandage her, it said. Use cloth if you need to. Do something, it commanded, anything to stop the bleeding.

Why did I freeze; why did I do nothing?

I had never seen this much blood. I had never dealt with something this bad. As I watched, she lay motionless, bleeding on the golden persian carpet. We had bought it on our honeymoon to Egypt. I remember how its delicate beauty had been transformed into a terrible mural of death. The intricate lines in the expensive foreign weaving filled with viscous red ink, a monstrous calligraphy of my wife's last breaths. Like confronting an unlearned language, I wanted everything to be clear and easy. Why couldn't the ambulance come? Why didn't anyone want to save my wife?

More importantly, why didn't I want to save her?

I didn't want to kill her, but by doing nothing I guaranteed her death. Her breathing slowed and her eyes glazed over. I backed across the room until my legs hit the chair. Collapsing into the soft leather, I cried. I cried for what seemed like hours. Snow fell upon snow, piling up around the windows as I wept. The white insulation that kept the world at bay, that killed my only love, fell silently. I was alone. Alone.

Ten years ago, I lost my only love. Ten years I have lived a lie. Ten years I should have been dead. Not her.

Now I go to join her. I slow my pace and step carefully in the snow. It falls around me, occluding the way back, hiding the way forward. The cold creeps into my lungs, freezing the very air I breathe and my chilling my blood. I fall to my knees and whisper a silent apology to my wife. Slowly, I lay down. All I see is white, drifting down to bury me in its beauty, in its quiet wrath.

I see my wife now. I see her eyes, her hair, her slight smile. I hear a soothing voice whisper through the wind. I hear forgiveness. I smile. I die.