Weihnachtsgedicht
"Somwhere the wind carves moments in the snow."
- Trans-Siberian Orchestra, "Ornament"
"In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God," intones the minister, his voice low with reverence.
Amy sits in a pew near the back of the church, inhaling the smell of the evergreen wreaths and garlands that decorate the sanctuary. Her candle flickers merrily, and she tips it forward slightly so that wax doesn't drip on her fingers and burn her.
"Through Him all things were made; in him was life, and that life was the light of men," the minister continues. Amy mouths the words she's known since Sunday School along with him.
In the beginning was Colin Hart, Amy thinks. In him was life, and that life was the light of men. Colin was light, and Colin was life.
Colin was alive. And now he's not.
Thinking this doesn't hurt as much as it used to. Amy's chest doesn't feel like it's suddenly too small. Nothing rises in the back of her throat. She doesn't have to swallow and blink more than usual.
Amy used to think of her life with Colin like a movie. His kisses had always been perfectly timed, and all she'd had to do was stick to the script. Even after the accident, she had known he would wake up, because the kind of movie they were in always had a happy ending. That knowledge, more than anything, had kept her by his bedside, day after day. Losing him had been a betrayal. It had felt like someone had snuck into the theater and switched reels from It's a Wonderful Life to Braveheart just before the end of the movie.
The congregation around her rises to sing "O Holy Night," and Laynie has to poke Amy before she realizes that she is still sitting in her pew. Her light, airy soprano floats over Laynie's duskier alto, blending seamlessly.
The hymn ends and the minister raises his hands and gives the benediction. Amy hands her candle to Laynie so that she can put her coat on, then silently follows her out of the church, head bowed. Outside, the candle provides just enough illumination to see her exhaled breath dance, ghostlike, in front of her face. She is reluctant to blow it out, and lets it burn on the ride home.
Laynie unlocks the door to their small house and goes inside, toeing off her shoes and hanging her scarf on the coat rack. Amy pauses on the front stoop, turning to face the scene spread out before her. Everwood is still and quiet, nestled in its valley bed. Smoke from chimneys drifts lazily upward toward the dark sky. Laynie had loved this isolated house in the mountains for its view; Amy is suddenly glad she'd allowed herself to be persuaded likewise.
A puff of a breeze suddenly extinguishes the candle, but Amy can still see the outline of the flame when she blinks. Grief is like that, she thinks. She'd been told many times that when someone important dies, a part of you dies with them. With Colin, it had been less like a part of her had died and more like she had instantly become a new person in a universe where Colin's death was a rule, just like gravity. As much as Amy misses Colin, she misses the person she'd been when Colin was alive even more.
Amy lays the candle down gently on the step, then turns and enters the home she and Laynie have shared for almost three years, locking the door behind her. A Christmas tree sits in the corner of their living room. Amy smiles, remembering the hours they'd spent decorating it with lights and ornaments from both of their childhoods. The kitchen still smells of the garlic bread they'd had with spaghetti earlier that evening; the dishes lay unwashed in the sink. Amy kicks her shoes off and tosses her coat across the back of the couch, promising herself that she'll hang it up tomorrow morning.
Laynie has already turned the lights out in the house's single bedroom, so Amy stands in the doorway and feels her way up the wall for the light switch. She flicks on the lights and steps into the now-illuminated room. The corners of Laynie's mouth twitch as she watches Amy undress and put her clothes in the basket of dirty laundry in the closet, then get her flannel pajamas out from under the pillow. She puts them on matter-of-factly, not in the mood to put on a show, and gets into bed.
"Merry almost-Christmas," Laynie says, leaning over and kissing Amy mischievously on the nose. "You've been kinda quiet tonight. 's anything wrong?"
Amy sighs. In the beginning, she'd told herself it was because Laynie was the next best thing to Colin. Same thick, dark hair, same laughing eyes and impish smile, same prickly sense of humor. But even their first kiss had called her bluff; fumbling, awkward, and terribly timed, it had been everything that Colin's kisses weren't. Though their technique has improved, Amy still occasionally feels that she'd somehow had to settle for second best.
Then again, Amy thinks, maybe it isn't about comparing. Laynie isn't Colin, but she's here, now, wrapping her warm body around Amy's colder one, sneaking a hand into the waistband of Amy's pajamas, dropping light kisses in the curve of Amy's neck. Maybe it's about being brave enough to let herself be content here, now, with Laynie. To dare to be satisfied with the life she has made and the person she has come to love.
Amy draws Laynie upwards and kisses her softly. "I'm okay," she whispers, and knows it is true.
"Okay," Laynie whispers back. She begins unbuttoning Amy's shirt with practiced fingers, her mouth following her hands. Glancing briefly out the window, Amy sees that it has begun to snow. The tiny flakes glisten and twinkle as they fall, creating the world anew.
"Somwhere the wind carves moments in the snow."
- Trans-Siberian Orchestra, "Ornament"
"In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God," intones the minister, his voice low with reverence.
Amy sits in a pew near the back of the church, inhaling the smell of the evergreen wreaths and garlands that decorate the sanctuary. Her candle flickers merrily, and she tips it forward slightly so that wax doesn't drip on her fingers and burn her.
"Through Him all things were made; in him was life, and that life was the light of men," the minister continues. Amy mouths the words she's known since Sunday School along with him.
In the beginning was Colin Hart, Amy thinks. In him was life, and that life was the light of men. Colin was light, and Colin was life.
Colin was alive. And now he's not.
Thinking this doesn't hurt as much as it used to. Amy's chest doesn't feel like it's suddenly too small. Nothing rises in the back of her throat. She doesn't have to swallow and blink more than usual.
Amy used to think of her life with Colin like a movie. His kisses had always been perfectly timed, and all she'd had to do was stick to the script. Even after the accident, she had known he would wake up, because the kind of movie they were in always had a happy ending. That knowledge, more than anything, had kept her by his bedside, day after day. Losing him had been a betrayal. It had felt like someone had snuck into the theater and switched reels from It's a Wonderful Life to Braveheart just before the end of the movie.
The congregation around her rises to sing "O Holy Night," and Laynie has to poke Amy before she realizes that she is still sitting in her pew. Her light, airy soprano floats over Laynie's duskier alto, blending seamlessly.
The hymn ends and the minister raises his hands and gives the benediction. Amy hands her candle to Laynie so that she can put her coat on, then silently follows her out of the church, head bowed. Outside, the candle provides just enough illumination to see her exhaled breath dance, ghostlike, in front of her face. She is reluctant to blow it out, and lets it burn on the ride home.
Laynie unlocks the door to their small house and goes inside, toeing off her shoes and hanging her scarf on the coat rack. Amy pauses on the front stoop, turning to face the scene spread out before her. Everwood is still and quiet, nestled in its valley bed. Smoke from chimneys drifts lazily upward toward the dark sky. Laynie had loved this isolated house in the mountains for its view; Amy is suddenly glad she'd allowed herself to be persuaded likewise.
A puff of a breeze suddenly extinguishes the candle, but Amy can still see the outline of the flame when she blinks. Grief is like that, she thinks. She'd been told many times that when someone important dies, a part of you dies with them. With Colin, it had been less like a part of her had died and more like she had instantly become a new person in a universe where Colin's death was a rule, just like gravity. As much as Amy misses Colin, she misses the person she'd been when Colin was alive even more.
Amy lays the candle down gently on the step, then turns and enters the home she and Laynie have shared for almost three years, locking the door behind her. A Christmas tree sits in the corner of their living room. Amy smiles, remembering the hours they'd spent decorating it with lights and ornaments from both of their childhoods. The kitchen still smells of the garlic bread they'd had with spaghetti earlier that evening; the dishes lay unwashed in the sink. Amy kicks her shoes off and tosses her coat across the back of the couch, promising herself that she'll hang it up tomorrow morning.
Laynie has already turned the lights out in the house's single bedroom, so Amy stands in the doorway and feels her way up the wall for the light switch. She flicks on the lights and steps into the now-illuminated room. The corners of Laynie's mouth twitch as she watches Amy undress and put her clothes in the basket of dirty laundry in the closet, then get her flannel pajamas out from under the pillow. She puts them on matter-of-factly, not in the mood to put on a show, and gets into bed.
"Merry almost-Christmas," Laynie says, leaning over and kissing Amy mischievously on the nose. "You've been kinda quiet tonight. 's anything wrong?"
Amy sighs. In the beginning, she'd told herself it was because Laynie was the next best thing to Colin. Same thick, dark hair, same laughing eyes and impish smile, same prickly sense of humor. But even their first kiss had called her bluff; fumbling, awkward, and terribly timed, it had been everything that Colin's kisses weren't. Though their technique has improved, Amy still occasionally feels that she'd somehow had to settle for second best.
Then again, Amy thinks, maybe it isn't about comparing. Laynie isn't Colin, but she's here, now, wrapping her warm body around Amy's colder one, sneaking a hand into the waistband of Amy's pajamas, dropping light kisses in the curve of Amy's neck. Maybe it's about being brave enough to let herself be content here, now, with Laynie. To dare to be satisfied with the life she has made and the person she has come to love.
Amy draws Laynie upwards and kisses her softly. "I'm okay," she whispers, and knows it is true.
"Okay," Laynie whispers back. She begins unbuttoning Amy's shirt with practiced fingers, her mouth following her hands. Glancing briefly out the window, Amy sees that it has begun to snow. The tiny flakes glisten and twinkle as they fall, creating the world anew.