There were only two prompts for today’s piece: “the woods are lovely, dark and deep” (a line from Robert Frost’s Stopping byWoods on a Snowy Evening) and “Things Change, Even Now.” I’m calling this flash fiction even though it’s based on actual events because I took license with a lot of details, so don’t tell when it was or wasn’t snowing–it was recent, okay? Also, my narrator says she doesn’t want to live in the woods. . . I myself have lived in the metaphorical woods a long time. It’s tricky but I love it here.
We had a hot spell mid-March, it was nearly 90 degrees on St. Patrick’s Day. But we went out anyway to an old Irish pub we used to frequent when were in our 20s, gosh, almost 50 years ago now. It hadn’t changed much, had it? No, it was big and boxy, a cavernous warehouse draped in rugby jerseys, green bunting, and black and white photos of poets and rebels across from a mural of green fields dotted with ragged sheep. We didn’t know they’d dispensed with table service for the holiday so it didn’t matter that we’d come early. It was hot and stuffy and crowded, but we ordered fish and chips and stood at a counter to eat because there were no chairs.
I could tell my friend felt bad she had dragged me here in the heat. I said, “You know, I think this is the best fried fish in Northern California.” I said it because I wanted to cheer her up, and this year I’ve resolved to be more positive. But I also said it because it was true. That fish was amazing. The breading was light and crisp and the white cod was hot, flaky and flavorful. Ah, the woods are lovely, dark, and deep, and this fish was lovely. I hope it had a full magical life before it took the bait. It deserved fresh clean water and a bit of joy.
We left shortly after eating the fish, before the music even began, because it was so hot inside that it made 80 degrees feel cool outside. My friend said we should come again when the AC is working. I laughed. “Yes, after the Equinox, when it’s officially spring: when it’s supposed to be warm.”
We didn’t say it, but we were both worried we would have highs in the 80s and 90s all spring and summer, and even through October, maybe till Thanksgiving. Such a pleasant way to die: because the woods are lovely, dark, and deep.
I pulled the heavier blankets off my bed. I pushed the turtlenecks and sweaters to the back of my closet. It was T shirt and sandal weather. Except then it wasn’t.
It was snowing Easter weekend in the mountains up above the valley. I pulled on my heavy corduroy slacks and my knit scarves again. Before climate change, I sagely told new residents of the valley, when I was a kid, rain was typical in April. May too. Even into June sometimes. But it was a lighter rain, warmer. But this—oh, there’s a snap to it, this wind. It bites.
This isn’t our weather! Why is this happening? Things change, even now. And the woods are lovely, dark, and deep.
It seems I have a tendency, I’ve noticed as I get older, a tendency to assume that what is, shall continue. It is warm today. It will be warm tomorrow. It will be warm all week.
Until it’s not. Then it will be cold today, tomorrow, all week. It is a routine. It is simple. I can plan for it.
I will be healthy today. I will be healthy tomorrow. Life is easy. We are lucky. Until we’re not.
The woods are lovely. The woods are dark. The woods are deep. I visit these woods occasionally. I learn stuff. But I don’t want to live here. Though it seems, it seems lately, I live here.
Photo by Sebastian Unrau on Unsplash
