The Last Winter

My eyes burst open. Hair, sweaty and tangled, sticks to the back of my neck. The small suburban guestroom is dark, but the streetlights lining the cul-de-sac cast a glow on the wall at the foot of my blow-up mattress. Fuzzy, thrift store paintings stare back at me. Squinting, I try to make sense of the lines and shapes, but I don’t have my glasses on. If I wasn’t so numb when I landed, I might have taken a moment to look around and absorb my surroundings. They changed the room around since the last time I was in town.

Assuming it’s too early to get up, I force my eyelids closed, but soon I hear the faint “click” of an electric kettle. Within seconds, my glasses are on, and I’m throwing a fleece blanket covered in cartoon characters off of me. A body heavy like wet sand, I slump downstairs.

My brother-in-law stands in the kitchen in worn flannel pajama pants and scoops coffee grounds into a french press. My mouth opens to ask, “How did you sleep?” but I close it, already knowing the answer. We exchange a loaded “good morning,” the air thick with yesterday’s residue. Before we can say another word, an army of tiny dogs hops down the stairs. Slowly descending behind them is my sister.

The tears came before I got on the plane. Once I landed, it was time for action. “How are you feeling? How’s your pain? How did you sleep?” I poke at her, hoping to be of service.

“Not well, I was cramping all night,” she croaks in her morning voice.

“When are you scheduled to get your port in?” I ask, pretending to be an expert after a quick Google search on the ins and outs of chemotherapy on the trip over.

“I think January 10th, I need to look at my chart online,” she groans, sinking into the closest recliner.

My eyes dart around the room, searching for ways to optimize the space. The chair should be moved closer to the stairs, and the rug could use a vacuum. She’ll need a better water bottle, one that’s big and won’t require several trips to the sink.

Suddenly, my internal to-do list is interrupted by a quiet, faint memory of what jolted me awake. Branches, a home, snow, eyes...wait, whose eyes? I strain to recall, but it’s just out of reach. Dreams love to dangle the details but leave out the plot.

My sister clicks on the TV and hits play on a famous reality show. There’s something oddly comforting about the presence of celebrities on the screen. Like old friends, they bring a sense of stability to the room. Ah yes, this is something we know, something that is normal. The last 24 have been anything but normal. We don’t discuss out loud why we’re watching this particular show at this early hour. We know.

I’m handed a cup of coffee and realize I need to find my phone. My stomach tightens, thinking of the messages from friends and family waiting for me that I can no longer ignore.

Back up the stairs, I shuffle and enter my room. At this point, the space is highlighted with the first hint of a winter sunrise. Two black eyes meet mine as I unplug my phone from the wall.

They’re the same eyes from my dream. Nestled into a vintage scene of bare trees, peaceful snow, and gently rolling farmland, a barn owl peers back at me. Suddenly the story fills in, and I recall traversing a barren midwestern landscape. Snowflakes pour down from the sky, and I’m running towards the warm glow of a farmhouse in the distance. The faster I run, the slower my legs move, a special kind of dream space torture. A distinct breeze moves through my hair as I struggle to reach my destination. I look up to see the belly of an owl flying over me.

It disappears into the white sky, and suddenly, I am awake.