A Chill Ran Through

We attempted a family walk through Evergreen Cemetery over the weekend. It was maybe 18 degrees with a wind. The ground is still snow-covered though it's been at least a week since our last dusting. (I know I'm getting greedy, but I would like a fresh coat on a bi-weekly basis.) By the time we wrangled everyone's outerwear, changed poopy underwear, fed hungry gaping baby maws, and dressed short-haired doggies with polar fleece, we had lost the sun. Shadows from the gravestones ran long into the snow.

Arden was muckled onto Sean like a wayward koala who had drifted to Antarctica from Australia by mistake. She couldn't be convinced to wear mittens, such a naughty kitten, so Sean tried to cuddle her hands when they found their way outside his puffy down coat. Any exposed flesh was instantly flash-frozen, like the icy version of searing a cut of steak.

Prometheus bobbed and weaved through the stone memorials, chasing phantom squirrels, running away from the cold. A family with three children went tobogganing all on the same sled, on one steep pitch that gathered them so much momentum they had to put on the brakes at the end of the run. Many people walked their long-haired dogs, who were more appropriately dressed for the weather than Prometheus. Someone cut a fresh swath of two straight lines with his cross-country skiis.

I imagined that the dead who permanently inhabit this tree-filled, centuries' old burial ground appreciated the commotion on such a cold winter day. They, impervious to the bitterness of a Maine January, might laugh to remember what it felt like to lose the feelings in one's fingers, or to put your child's hand in your mouth to keep it from getting frost-bitten. Poor souls, they might say, watching us trying at all cost to squeeze enjoyment out of a day that might be better spent curled up next to a fire. Thanks for coming to visit, perhaps they'd say. We thought we'd be abandoned on an afternoon so much like death, but here you are with your sleds and your dogs and your LL Bean pluck.

We heard them laughing. Our adventure was short-lived. At Arden's first wail, we flipped the script and trod back to the car on the cross-country skiiers vectors. I turned on the ignition. Sean flipped on the heated seats. I nursed my baby and kissed her cold cheeks. As long as we have blood in our veins, what a treat to come in from the cold.