Lovely Dar and Deep

A short, no-sex, romance tale with good potential for more.

I hate winter, the ice and snow and cold and the cessation of beloved outdoor activities that some of us live for. Winter can be terribly inconvenient. And yet, I must admit, there's a terrible beauty to January, typically the season's coldest month. Bare branches shooting up against a lead-grey sky; the air, blustery and clean and yes, even the snow ignites in me something precious and primal.

It's been a little over a year since she died, my fiancé, my lovely Kathy, taken by a texting driver on a rural road. She'd been riding her bike when the car slammed into her rear. She'd been riding alone, and I still can't help but wonder if that same car would have taken me as well had we been riding together. Normally, we did on weekend rides. But I had other matters to attend to, and so Kathy went out alone--her last ride, her last day on earth. Gone at age twenty-six.

Dealing with the grief. Not easy. Survivor's guilt? I've got some of that, perhaps. But worse is simply missing her, missing every part of her, missing something I can never get back. We had plans. Our life together stretched before us--until it no longer did. Such a horrible loss underscores just how fragile this life is. Our lives hang on this thin thread, and all it takes is a texting driver or something else to cut that fragile thread short. Forever.

Someone suggested that I take up hiking to cope with my grief. So that's what I'm doing in these woods on this typically cold January day, my legs bundled in heavy, tan corduroy slacks tucked inside rubber and suede boots. I'm finding beauty in the essence of the season. "Whose woods these are I think I know," the poet wrote. I do know, because I once lived here, grew up near these woods. There's comfort in visiting the nest, in returning to a place lived in a simpler time. Or so that time seems to me now.

A thin layer of snow covers the ground, remnants of a recent snowfall, a three-incher, I'd say. This old suburban neighborhood hasn't changed much since my childhood. Walk silent, walk deep, and I do. Well, not exactly silent but close. There's the crunching sound of my boots over the snow, the chirping of birds that didn't fly south for the winter and the sound of "easy wind and downy flake," as Mr. Frost wrote. Not much else, except for my thoughts, ringing in my head, loudly enough to where I can almost hear them aloud. If only Kathy had left a little earlier or later. If only the driver, Francine Elizabeth Scholz--a name I shall never forget--had left earlier or later. If only Francine Elizabeth hadn't been texting. If only...

In the distance, through this thicket of birch, oak and pine, I see another hiker. Easy to see because of the orange coat she's wearing. Then I hear the crunching of boots and before long, I see her long brown hair flowing down from the pink wool cap atop her head. She comes up to me and says, "And I thought I was the only crazy person out here in this frigidity."

She smiles, and I smile back. "There's something to be said for this weather," I say, leaving out the terrible beauty part. "But don't get me wrong, I can't wait for spring."

"Me either. Do you live around here?"

"Used to. I grew up around here. You?"

She points behind her. "About a quarter-mile that-a-way. So what brings you back?"

What a story I could tell, but hardly appropriate for a total stranger. "Um, nothing, really, except a little exercise on familiar turf." I tell her where I now live when she asks.

"Sounds like you miss your old neighborhood."

"At times," I say, thinking how pretty she is, with her cute nose, red from the cold, beautiful smile and legs, full and shapely and wrapped in black spandex. "So, not to be nosy, but who do you live with?"

"With my mom and dad."

She looks around thirty, my age, so I wonder why she hasn't yet left the nest.

She senses my curiosity. "It's only temporary. I was living with my boyfriend. He was a contractor for landlords and their rental properties and sometimes he worked in dangerous parts of the city. Gangs, drugs, shootings. He...he was caught in a crossfire between rival drug gangs. And that was it." She looks down and shakes her head.

"I'm so sorry." I want to reach out and hug her.

She nods. "Thanks. I'm not quite all cried out but I'm getting there. It happened about a year and a half ago."

Her forthrightness impresses me, compels me to open up about Kathy. "I know something about loss myself." I proceed to tell her what happened. "So that's what I'm doing here, trying to walk off my grief in this frigid weather in a place that warms my heart."

She steps closer, reaches out and takes my gloved hands in her gloved hands. "I'm so sorry about your own loss. And I hope you'll tell me your name. I'm Rhiana Shuster."

"Aaron Kravitz."

We're close enough to where the steam from my breath melts into hers. "Mind if I hug you, Rhiana?"

She flashes me the warmest of smiles, so needed on a day like this. "Not at all, Aaron. Considering our circumstances and these polar temperatures, I think we could both use a hug." Our bodies meet, my blue ski jacket against her orange wool coat. We're a good fit, I think as I press my five-foot-eight self against her. She's almost as tall, and would probably be taller with full heels. Her forehead brushes against the beard I grew right after Kathy was killed. I never thought I'd grow a beard. Never thought I'd be hiking in this kind of weather either. Profound loss can do that, can compel us to make changes, to do things we might not have done otherwise.

"That was nice," she says when we decouple.

I want to hug her again. I want to hug her all night. I ask: "So what do you think the odds were that we'd find each other in this place in this kind of weather?"

She laughs. "A million to one? I don't know. But I can say that I'm glad we did. I mean, I don't know you and yet I feel this weird kind of closeness that's hard to explain. Kindred spirits. Oh, man, what a cliché'. But I think you get the idea."

"I do get the idea. Like two ships passing in the night, speaking of clichés. Only we didn't pass. We could have missed each other but we didn't. Timing, as they say, is everything. I think of Kathy and the awful timing..." I shut up, not wishing to further burden Rhiana with my grief.

Rhiana draws a sympathetic look and takes my hand. "Come on, let's walk a bit more."

We hold hands, strolling through what feels to me now like some kind of surreal winter wonderland. Minutes ago, I was alone with my grief. Now, improbably, I'm with someone who's experienced a similar loss, a gal pretty enough to model chic winter clothing and ski equipment, photographed atop some mountain wearing a Suzy Chap Stick smile. The crunching sound of our boots punctuates our small talk as we trudge through the snow. I offer to show her where I once lived. "Sure, lead the way," she says.

The woods end at a serpentine, two-lane road, cleared of snow. We cross it and then walk slightly uphill for three blocks until the hill levels off and we come to the house, built like many of the adjacent houses between the two world wars. Nice house but nothing extravagant. Just your average, three-story, three-bedroom, middle-class abode of the era, replete with slant slate roof and layers of white paint brushed over the wood. I was born here, I tell her, then moved out after college. My parents sold the house a few years after that.

We stand on the sidewalk in front, huddled together, watching the two young boys who now live here taking turns, sledding down the short, steep slope. When I was their age, that slope seemed so much longer and steeper. "Kids seem oblivious to the cold when they're having fun," I say. "I was like that at their age."

"Yeah, me too," Rhiana says. "A snowfall battle could keep me and my friends out for a long time. But I'm sure feeling it now."

I take her hand. "Yep. Let's get moving."

Minutes later, we reach the spot in the woods where we met, our point of return. Or, point of no return, depending on what might or might not happen next. "I guess you're headed home," I say.

"I am," Rhiana says, "and I hope you can head there with me for something warm to drink. But first..."

She doesn't complete the sentence. Instead, she shows me what she left unsaid. She covers my ears, bare and red from the cold. "You should wear earmuffs with that cap," she says. "That's my inner Jewish mother coming out." Then, when she puts her lips to mine, I'm thinking that her kisses and body will warm me more than any cup of coffee or hot chocolate ever could. I hardly know her, don't know her at all, really, don't know what she does for a living, where she went to school, what she likes to read, what she does to have fun. And yet, so precious, so wonderful is this moment, so natural does it feel, that I think I could stand here forever, doing what I'm doing and never look back.

When we finally decouple, it begins to flurry. Mr. Frost again: "These woods are lovely dark and deep."

Rhiana reaches up and flicks away a snowflake from my beard. "But I hope you don't have promises to keep. Or miles to go before you sleep. Because I'm looking forward to sharing that warm drink with you. And maybe other things as well."

She takes my hand and off we go through these woods, so lovely, so deep and so much, it appears, like this Rhiana Schuster. She's still a stranger now unto me. And yet, she's leading me toward her home, where a warm drink awaits. And maybe other things as well.