By Heather LeRoss 
Her winter is here, and like everything in winter, she’s preparing. But, unlike with Mother Nature, spring isn’t around the corner. This is her winter, the final shutting down of so much life.
I look outside, and the leaves are gone. The trees are barren, and the ground is hard with cold. The sky never fully lights up. It, too, is tired and working at half its capacity, saving energy for what’s next. Clouds hover, and stillness is present. It’s a quiet that invites us each to stop. There’s no expectation this winter that we will be too productive. It’s cold, and the fire inside is working hard enough.
I watch her in her winter, cradled by the chair that has formed into her shape. The blanket covers her, but she shivers. For what’s coming or the cold, I’m not sure. Her oxygen tubes sit still on her chest, the busiest of everything, pumping and moving the air that keeps her alive.
This winter, I feel it. I know it’s coming. Years past, I’ve questioned, “Is this the final Thanksgiving? The last Christmas?” But now, this year feels different. She’s more peaceful in her pain. Less angry at her past. She’s accepting the life she’s living even though what’s happening shouldn’t be called living. Existing? Waiting? Both. She’s in a pause—a long, slow, painful mid-point of before.
She rocks slowly, her eyes closed. I watch her chest rise and fall. I know how hard her body is working at this moment. The body that was once my home. The world outside has gone lazy, but inside here, she fights. She’s become an unwitting warrior. The battle to inhale; the pain endured when walking. But the real enemy is time, and we both know it’s a battle already lost.
There’s beauty in this war—even amid everything that’s being lost. Beauty in memories of her better times. Beauty in the music of her favorite song, that first taste of the chocolates she loves still after all these years. There’s joy in retelling her favorite stories, me telling mine: our shared laughter, our silly times. There’s acceptance in her smile, her voice, her peace. There’s beauty in our hugs, our whispered, “I love you.”
I won’t have regrets when this winter has passed. I know I’ve loved as hard as I can. I won’t mourn the passing of these days because it will mean the pain is also gone. I’ll remember the days before with gratitude.
I go to her and adjust the blanket that has slipped to her thighs. She opens her eyes, and I see our past. But not the hard times, not the fights, or the frustrations. Winter has a way of blurring out the hard times. It forces us to seek warmth. In this moment, in her eyes, I see the love—the purest kind. I watch as she recognizes our love, and she smiles. I kiss her head, and our roles are reversed.
Winter is here, and I know that soon, this chair will sit empty, the blanket on the floor, and the oxygen powered off.
Winter will have passed.
by Stevie Swift 
by Laura Domer-Shank 
by Deborah Ackerman 
