At That Very Hour

At that very hour she was sitting at her desk, looking out the window, watching the snow fall. A cardinal – bright red against the dark green of the fur trees – was scurrying from branch to branch and she wondered why that cardinal was still outside her window on a cold winter morning.

What determines if a bird flies south for the winter or stays behind?

She thought for a moment about the opportunity she’d been offered – briefly – to fly south herself, but she’d opted for responsibility, for honor, and obligation, and stayed safely in her home – against her heart’s judgment – the heart that even now was flooding her head with messages.

It’s not too late! You can still probably catch a flight!

But her head always overruled her heart with this list of very necessary and meaningful things to which she must see. There was no way she could just up and leave. Not with the children still in school, needing someone to come home to, and not with her mother – recently widowed by husband number four – who would depend on her now even more until she got her feet under her and found number five.

There are just too many people who rely on me to just up and go. Go where, anyway?

What was she being asked to do? Certainly not move south, permanently. No, the offering had come in such an off handed manner, she wasn’t really sure it was intended to disrupt her thoughts as much as it did. It was more of a “what if” in the same way her father used to say, “What if we moved into a house on the lake?” and they’d spend weeks with a realtor driving around exploring houses until the realtor would lose her patience and stop returning his excited calls when he found yet another “house on the lake that is THE ONE!”.

And in the end, he died in the house he bought when he’d first moved to town – the three bedroom 50’s ranch house. “Cheapest one on the street – a very wise investment” he’d brag. When her mother sold the house after he died, she made a killing; enough to set her up in a snazzy new retirement village where – you guessed it – her new townhouse was lake front. She entertained her gentleman callers on the screened porch overlooking the lighted fountain which made soothing splashing noises late into the night – until the retirement village had to shut off the light, because it was bothering the neighbors – but not bothering her mother who had long since retired into the living room, cocktail in hand, intent on wooing another one down the aisle toward wedded bliss.

So, he said “What if I asked you to marry me”? It’s not like he actually said “Marry me!”

He’d still have to do something – seriously something – about his wife, and she doubted he’d ever have the courage to do something – anything – about her. He wasn’t wired that way, and neither was she, really, to be the husband-abandoning type. She’d learned too much from her mother. Better to wait until they kicked the bucket before you started working on a new one, and be very careful not to pick up a dreamer, or you’ll spend all of your time house hunting.

At that very hour, she could’ve been on a plane, heading south for the winter with the birds. Instead, she sat and watched the snow fall, dreaming of a house on the lake.