"Love one another" looks like my husband. One of the reasons I fell in love with him was his kindness. He would help someone who fell or who was carrying a heavy load - in one instance, a bike, over a turnstile and up the subway stairs. On our street, he has always been that neighbor to lend a hand, climb a ladder, give you the soil mix he makes so your garden can be as lovely as his. Six years into a Parkinson's diagnosis, he is still going out and shoveling snow or raking leaves for elderly neighbors or the single mom suffering from cancer. Or, just today, jet-lagged and exhausted, he went out to help the family whose dad suffered a stroke and is still in the hospital after a month.

"Love thy neighbor" looks like my friend giving cold water to the mailman and UPS guy all summer.

It looks like my son giving the homeless person outside Costco his favorite muffins that he was salivating for minutes before he saw him.

It looks like giving someone a quarter for a shopping cart they need instead of the change for a dollar requested.

It looks like smiling at people you encounter and endeavoring, if you cannot make it better, at least to not make their day worse.

It looks like treating others as you would wish to be treated.

It looks like not responding in kind to nastiness. Perhaps, taking a moment to consider what someone else may be enduring before you respond to or judge them.

It looks like thinking before you speak...or post:

T - Is it true?

H - is it helpful?

I - is it inspiring?

N - is it necessary?

K - is it kind?

Does it improve upon the silence?

I told him that I hated walking his dog.

The Bernese is strong and excited about everything and the leash is quite useless if a squirrel is stupid enough to show itself. The muscles in my arms and shoulders ache from every simple stroll through the neighborhood, and my throat stings from the constant begging and pleading and bargaining. His white and brown face, droopy and slobbering, always gives me that look over his shoulder until I give in and dig into my coat pocket for one of those bacon treats. A nightmare, indeed.

I complained about the task once more this morning, groaning about the frosted, slick sidewalks and that elderly woman south on Wadelyn Lane who always fusses about making sure that Baxter doesn't "conduct his business" in her grass. The winter was finally starting to take hold of our small town, and I despise the season and all of its freezing, windy facets. But Sam listened to every word, patient and amused, and just smiled warmly before kissing the line where my skin ends and soft curls begin. He told me he loved me and that he'd be back soon, and that he promised I wouldn't have to walk Baxter anymore once the snow arrived. And then he left.

Left me with the stubborn old giant that I swore gave me a mischievous smile through those floppy chops and waited at the door, bushy tail swishing. I glared at the muddy bootprints Sam left behind and prepared for the biting temperatures with my beanie and a thick jacket. And with reluctance, I grabbed the fraying purple leash hanging on the hook by the front door, clipped it onto Baxter's collar, and prayed that it would last another day before beginning the perilous half-mile journey around our suburban community.

The cold pierced through every pore in my face as soon as we walked down the driveway and past the tire tracks leading in the opposite direction. Baxter huffed happily and trotted, that tangled tail of fur wagging lazily and upright. Already, I could feel him taking advantage of the fact that I was his chauffeur as my torso was tugged ahead of my legs. My breath puffed out little clouds in front of me when I grumbled his name in warning, tilting my head to the sky beseechingly. But he acted as if he didn't hear me as he carried on, lifting his nose in the crispy air to take in all of the wonderful smells. My own nose twisted after we passed a pile of fresh, steaming dung on the sidewalk; I could only redirect Baxter's attention to a lilting bird's song and some sirens in the distance at that point.

Eventually, we passed the elderly woman's house, and she was conveniently seated on her porch with a mug of coffee giving off grey tendrils of warmth. Her eyes were narrow with sternness and judgment while she watched us pass. I just took my free hand out of the comfort of my pocket and offered an awkward wave with a tight smile. She didn't repay the gesture, but apparently found it in herself to nod.

But of course, the ever-argumentative mountain dog had to stop to sniff the dying blades of grass. My eyes widened at the unexpected audacity--even Baxter doesn't edge the widow's temper. I gave a gentle tug on his leash, which gave no assistance as he kept his snout down, inhaling whatever could possibly be so interesting in an aggravated neighbor's yard.

"Sorry!" I shouted. "We're working on his manners!"

She just stared at me expectantly, one leg crossed over the other while she waited for me to make Baxter obey. I grabbed at the side of his collar, making him look me in the face. I spoke through gritted teeth:

"You are embarrassing the hell out of me. Let's go."

He looked at me blankly, unmoving when I went to guide him along. I growled.

"Baxter, now."

Nothing.

I sighed, pursing my lips so hard they went numb in the freezing air.

"Okay, I will give you two bacon treats if you listen to me. Two. Treats."

The strange look the old woman gave me from across the lawn didn't go unnoticed, but I pretended not to see it, instead savoring the small victory when Baxter's tongue fell out in response to the bribe. He may be a dog, but he is fluent enough in a few select words to know when he's getting a good deal.

By the time the rest of the walk was complete, and Baxter received both of his treats, I was satisfied with the amount and difficulty of the challenges presented. The house was quiet and levels more pleasant than outside. I rewarded myself with a hot shower, breakfast in bed, and a hot cup of lavender tea while Baxter munched on his bed in the corner of the living room. Hours passed, and I prepped dinner: alfredo and garlic bread. I waited on the couch until six o'clock with my favorite reality show playing in the background.

And when he was late, I called to ask when he'd be home. I was only met with that welcoming, clever voicemail of his.

When another hour came and went, I worried about dinner, and how it was getting cold.

And finally, he knocked on the locked front door, and I was already scolding him about not answering my calls and letting a perfectly good meal go cool before I opened it for him.

But I found another man on my doorstep, all dressed in black and blue and holding his hat with both hands in front of him. He wore a pitiful face, and his eyes gleamed with exhaustion.

Baxter walked much slower to my side after my knees slammed into the muddy bootprints on the hardwood floors. He whined next to me after I screamed a cry so loud that other doors across the street opened. He laid down, pressing into me for comfort as the stranger in blue, who I'd never met before, knelt down and gave me his condolences and apologies for my dead fiance.

It was slick on the roads, he said.

It wasn't his fault. There was a young girl learning how to drive with her father.

None of them made it.

It wasn't five minutes from home.

I'm sure he was a good man.

And all of this talk in past tense...the words bit much colder than the winter that would come.

The last thing I'd said...

I told him I hated walking his dog.

-------

I never cleaned the hardwood floors by the front door.

I let the tire marks fade on their own, never parking in Sam's place.

I walked Baxter in every snow, every flurry, every blizzard.

And he never pulled or tugged or bothered the old woman's grass again.

Her name was Judith, I learned. And she loved her husband very much. He died of colon cancer in his forties, and she'd never felt so rotten and alone after the fact. But even so, after she'd heard of Sam's death, she brought freshly baked pies and home-cooked meals to that front door. And she talked for hours, every so often even sneaking a small bite of lasagna or bread to Baxter under the table. And I listened, not often speaking or necessarily kind, but Judith didn't seem to notice.

I never sold the house, and I slept alone for many years after.

But when the couple down the road moved in, I watched the young woman walk their German Shepherd, and I laughed every time she struggled to make him listen or relax. I kept bacon treats next to the mailbox--with a sign that said take one. And I bought salt every winter.

Spreading it on every home's driveway before the sun rose on Wadelyn Lane.

My art bring people to tears

and on their knees

really

whole neigborhood mine

on their knees is

begging me

in tears

not to recite my poems loudly anymore...

“Hello, my name is Andrew Garrison, and I’m an alcoholic,” I said to the room of defeated faces that formed a circle around me. The man at the other end, with the spectacles, crossed legs, and rosary dangling over his hairy chest, said, “Thank you, Andrew, we’re all happy to have you here.” No, they weren’t.

“Is there anything you’d like to say? Any thoughts you might have? This is a judgment-free room,” the rosary man said.

“I don’t want forgiveness or nothing like that.” I answered. “I ain’t here because I want this room to convince me that I’m not what I am. Because I’m not confused about that.”

“Very well, Andrew. You can continue.” I disliked this man. The smile told me he thought he was above me. That he believed he was the puppet master of this room. Controlling a bunch of sinners who were looking up at rock bottom, because it was easy, because they were already defeated.

“My daughter died. She was only three months old. I was drinking heavily. I passed out on the couch while my ex-wife was at work. I placed her on my chest, and I came to with the sound of Helen screaming, as she grabbed Annie, who was lying face down on the carpet floor next to the couch. She wasn’t breathing.”

I paused to see if the rosary man was going to interject, but he didn’t say a word. Just waved a hand at me to signify that it was okay to continue. That no one was judging me, even though their faces told a different tale.

“I bet you’d think that something like that would make me put the bottle down? Well, it did, for a little while. But when Helen left, and I lost my job at the refinery, I couldn’t stand reality, you know? The thought of it. The thought of clear consciousness made my skin crawl. And eventually I found myself roaming the streets at night, fighting with myself.”

“What was the fight about, Andrew?”

“The fact that I couldn’t come up with one single reason to not shove a gun down my throat.”

“Well, you’re still with us. Among the living. So, what changed your mind?”

“A bar. Tom’s Bar. I would sit there, me and the rest of the disenfranchised. Silently having the same conversations inside our head. Well, maybe there’s weren’t quite as bad as mine, but they still had their shit, ya know? Their regrets. Anyway, one of them, this guy named Reggie, he’s a small skinny little thing, shaped like a twig. He says, he says, that uh, his sister, her name was Margie, I think, works down at the River Run diner off of Water. Anyway, he says that her man has been laying beatings on her, something awful right. Reggie says that every Wednesday they get together for a game of cards, a few beers, and just to talk about life and shit. So, he tells me, well, he tells whoever’s listening, that she comes over to his place on Wednesdays, all bruised up. One week it’s a shiner, the next it’s on her forearms, her legs, then on one of these Wednesdays, she asks if she can take a shower. Reggie says, yeah sure, no problem. So when he hears the water running, he peeks in. He tells the guys that he ain’t no pervert, or incest, or whatever, but he just wanted to see what it was she was hiding, you know?. He sees her back, and man, he said he nearly dropped dead. There were scratch marks from the top of her back to the bottom. Bite marks, scars, you name it, it was there. So he says, Wendy, this is the final straw. I’m going to go over there and beat his head in. You know what she says?”

“No, I don’t.” The rosary man said. “No, but don’t stop. Please, continue.” Again, he waves his hand in my direction, and I want to go over there and break it off. But I try not to dwell, because my thoughts get all jumbled when that rage takes over, and I want to finish my story.

“She tells him that Reggie will have to kill him. Plain and simple, because if he doesn’t, he’ll kill her. So, it’s either let it alone. Let fucking bygones be bygones or whatever, or go all the way.”

Then this lady, about fifty or so years old, scratching at her wrists, timidly raises her hand like we’re in grade school, and asks. “Well, why didn’t she just go to the cops?”

“That’s a good question. That’s what Reggie asks her too, you see? He says, Wendy, I’ll drive you down to the sheriff’s office right now, and we’ll put the prick away. But she says no. She actually laughs. Not a, this is a funny situation laugh, but a Reggie, how could you be so naïve laugh.”

The 50-year-old woman raises her hand again. “Why did she laugh?” She doesn’t make eye contact with me. She stares at her shoes as she asks.

“Well, she laughs because of society, right? This man, this man, is a pillar of the community. A stand-up guy, you know? Donates to charity, volunteers at the soup kitchen. He’s a reverend down at the Holy Cross too, or at least he was. A man of God. And she says that she was born into a white trash family and lived her life in a trailer park. So she says, what would the sheriff say? The man, who is a personal friend of her boyfriends, what would he say if a trailer trash girl from a trailer trash family tried to condemn a pillar of the community? Well, he’d laugh in her face is what he would do.”

“That ain’t right, man. That ain’t right at all,” A young black man to my right said, and I just nod my head. It isn’t right at all. “This guy should get a bullet in his head.”

“You couldn’t be more right,” I said, as I looked at the man with the rosary. “My daughter died, and nothing will bring her back, but maybe I can balance the world again by getting rid of a piece of shit.” I stood up, pulled the .38 from the back of my pants, and shot the rosary man twice in the head.

Then I turned around and walked out of the meeting, as the circle screamed.

There, job applications are all done. I sigh. Now, I just need to wait.

Any relief I might've felt is short-lived, lost in a whirlwind of thoughts. When will I get the call? Who will call? What will they be like? What will my soon-to-be coworkers be like? Will I be able to keep up with them? Will I be able to do everything without getting overwhelmed? What about the customers themselves? Will they make this retail hell, or mostly bearable?

Everything is unknown, unpredictable. There is no peace of mind. Not until I get the call.

But even then...

She sat at the back and they said she was shy

She led from the front and they hated her pride

They asked her advice and then questioned her guidance

They branded her loud then were shocked by her silence

When she shared no ambition, they said it was sad

So she told them her dreams and they said she was mad

They told her they’d listen then covered their ears

And gave her a hug whilst they laughed at her fears

And she listened to all of it thinking she should

Be the girl they told her to be best as she could

But one day she asked what was best for herself

Instead of trying to please everyone else

So she walked to the forest and stood with the trees

She heard the wind whisper and dance with the leaves

And she spoke to the willow, the elm and the pine

And she told them what she’d been told time after time

She told them she felt she was never enough

She was either too little or far, far too much

Too loud or too quiet, too fierce or too weak

Too wise or too foolish, too bold or too meek

Then she found a small clearing surrounded by firs

And she stopped and she heard what the trees said to her

And she sat there for hours not wanting to leave

For the forest said nothing, it just let her breathe

They called her Vivian, when they called her anything at all. She would seldom give out her name when she sat in at bars, content to sit and respond to calls of "Hey, Lady," with a middle finger or a sardonic smile. Maybe both.

She'd sit on a stool as close to the middle as she could get, and wait, eyes raking the crowd like she was looking for someone that didn't seem to exist. She'd stay for about an hour and then leave, driving all night to some other town and sitting in some other bar.

She was tired. She'd worked her entire adult life, garnering more and more attention until she finally gave up, weighed down by stacks and stacks of dollar bills that just kept getting heavier, even now that she wasn't working. Some asshole told her to invest and like a fool, she did, and her money was still growing day by day, a large, smoldering parasite that was putting a hunch in her back and blisters on the soles of her feet.

She could afford anything. Could buy herself a house on some exotic beachfront, buy herself a model for a husband, could probably buy two-point-five kids. She could buy herself a perfect lawn and trees and flowers, buy herself the finest meals this world has ever seen.

Instead, she went to bars, paying for gas as needed along the way, and sat with her hand over the top of her single drink and watched the crowd grow and ebb around her.

The only significant purchase she'd ever made was plastic surgery, her face now unrecognizable from the one that used to be plastered on the cover of magazines with headlines like "The Woman Who Beat Elon Musk: Five Tips She Has for Young Woman" (an article in a magazine that she'd never actually granted an interview to yet one that sold nearly a billion copies worldwide).

The bar she sat in now was particularly run down, the owners a tired couple with divorce lawyers bookmarked in their contacts and tenants that resembled fat city rats more than they resembled people. These places were Vivian's favorite, the scent of cheap booze and despair hanging over her like a blanket. They were nostalgic, almost; reminders of the nights that her father actually remembered to come home and would read, in his slurred yet kind voice, bedtime stories. Stories of dragons and scientists and inventors, big girl stories that little Vivian never quite understood but enjoyed anyway.

She let her eyes travel, blank and listless, over the crowd, still searching for someone that she was beginning to think she'd never find. A face the same age as her own, just beginning to show the telltale decay of age.

A face that represented her biggest regret, and a face who's absence represented her biggest fear.

Her hour was up, and she uncovered the top of her drink, leaving it to sit and wait, full, until someone cleaned it away.

She showed no reaction as some guy behind her asked if it hurt when she fell from heaven. Her face a wall. Behind it, all her fear and regret were boiling, invisible to everyone except her.

Her regret had a name. Bianca. Short, a little overweight but not unhealthy, only a single pimple to mar her pallid face. Beautiful in her normalcy. She was average.

Vivian realized, years too late, that every cruel word she'd said was out of jealousy. Bianca had the luxury of being normal, of not worrying about what others thought until Vivian forced her to worry. A luxury that Vivian did not have. Every grade was bullied to perfection, every feature was crushed down until it became something resembling beautiful, her mother living vicariously through every good-looking boy she brought home and threatening to disown her on the one genuine occasion that she brought home someone she loved on the basis of his appearance. He "wasn't pretty enough" to get her anywhere.

Maybe that was why Vivian had remained single. More than anything else, it was her mother's voice, telling her she needed to find a real man if she wanted to get anywhere in life.

Bianca had been hospitalized in her freshman year of high school and never returned, and on the night of Vivian's graduation she almost refused to walk the stage as the realization of what she'd done hit her like a truck. She didn't deserve to graduate. She'd nearly killed someone.

But in the end, her mother won, and she walked. Graduated salutatorian, an honor that disgraced her mother for years.

She was leaving a large tip as the door swung open. Not Bianca, this was a balding man with an indecipherable sports jersey.

She sighed at her own naivete and left, door slamming behind her. Retreated to her car, which, like her, was beginning to show its years. She didn't have the heart to replace it, even after she'd racked up nearly a hundred thousand miles. She intended to drive it until it broke down or until she finished her redemption mission, whichever came first.

She'd spent years wondering how much money she'd have to give. A million per every year of life? A billion?

At some point she realized that money was worthless. You could not reimburse an intrusive thought, could not bribe it into submission when you were the one who planted it there.

Even so, she kept searching, hoping to find a successful and happy woman rather than a headstone. She still hadn't found either one, and she'd googled Bianca's name at least two dozen times a month.

She'd scripted out her conversation. No flowery begging for apologies. Merely a statement, that she knew what she'd done and regretted it, that she hoped she'd found a way to move past it, or at least a way to cope.

No expectation for forgiveness, but a hope.

Vivian's next stop was in Cincinnati. They had some nicer bars, ones that glistened in the night, false veneers of happiness covering up a cesspool of tragedy that hung heavy inside them.

The saddest people tended to drink at the nicest bars with smiles on their faces.

It was nearing six in the morning, the threshold between night and day, between the early birds and the night owls, both suffering from the same affliction manifested in different ways.

She'd been to three bars tonight, unable to sleep, driven by some manic obsession.

This would be her fourth.

The bartender was a smiling blonde woman with short curly hair, heavy black eyeliner, and a wedding ring around a chain on her neck. She greeted Vivian with enthusiasm and Vivian decided that she liked her. That kind of radiance at six in the morning was rare to find. Either she was content and confident or she was on heavy drugs. Normally Vivian would lean to the latter, but with this particular individual, she was inclined to believe the former.

She actually took a sip of the drink before she covered it with her hand, motivated by some alien compulsion.

"How're you tonight, Hon," asked the bartender, her voice so soothing it was almost familiar.

Vivian just smiled and shrugged.

"Been a rough night?"

"I suppose. I'm looking for someone."

"Ah, ain't we all, girl."

Vivian allowed herself to laugh a little.

"I'm looking for someone I hurt. A girl I knew once."

"We've all hurt someone, Hon."

"Yeah, I suppose."

"Here's the thing. Whoever it was you hurt, she's probably moved on. Grown up, cried about it, and then moved on. Maybe she realized that you suffered just like her, in your own way. Maybe she taught herself to laugh at your insecurities, to pity the person you were. She doesn't need you to find her. Maybe she even found herself because of you."

Vivian looked up, startled by the poignancy of this stranger's words.

"I guess you have a point."

"I've seen all kinds of people here, Hon. Abusers, abused. And I'm telling you, a lotta times the abusers suffer for it even more than the abused do. Not always. There's always sickos, always exceptions. But more than once I've had a guy come in here three steps away from suicide because he hit his girlfriend once in high school. Everyone's got their issues. Their trauma. Tricky part is learning from it, excising your evil. Cause we all got evil, Hon."

Vivian's hour was up but she lingered for a moment more before getting up and smiling at the bartender.

"Thank you," she said.

"Anytime, Hon."

As Vivian left, her hand on the door, she took one look back. the bartender had moved on to the next person, smiling at some new stranger, putting them at ease with the sheer force of her kindness.

The name tag pinned neatly to her shirt read Bianca.

I’m an only child. Today, after I graduate from high school, my billionaire parents and I are boarding a private jet. We will travel around the world for 62 days, stopping in all the places I chose as my graduation present. I’m a bit concerned about that much family time, but when they asked what I wanted, I couldn’t think of a single thing.

It feels like we’ve already travelled half-way around the world on this one flight. I find the lightning piercing through fluffy clouds amazing, although I don’t enjoy the sudden drop in pressure. Suddenly, we are on a downward spiral without time to even think of what might happen next.

I’m no longer an only child. I’m an orphan. Why did I have to survive that awful wreck and lose both of my parents? Uncle Joe came quickly to be with me, but I never cared for my dad’s brother. Of course, he didn’t understand when I said, “I will never go home again.”

Now I have a billion dollars in my name. Nowhere I really want to go, and nowhere I want to be. I remember hearing about some very expensive trips going to the moon. I can definitely afford that. Wonder what they will do when I get there and refuse to go home?

Keenan knew something was up when his mother stopped in the middle of the dress section of the women’s department. She only had a few dresses, and all of them were at least as old as he was.

And yet, here she was, stopped short in front of a dark blue dress. Keenan didn’t know much about girls’ clothes, but he thought the dress was very pretty, so he said so. “It is pretty, isn’t it, Sweetie?”

“Why don’t you buy it, Momma?”

“Oh, honey, we don’t have the money for that. Anyway, we came here to buy clothes for you! You’re growing so fast that the clothes I bought last year don’t fit anymore. Look at those pants! They don’t even reach your ankles anymore!”

“But Momma! You just bought a new suit for Daddy! Why can’t we buy a dress for you too? You’d look pretty!”

“Thank you, Sweetie, but your father needs to wear suits for work, and I don’t need any more dresses than what I have.” It was true. True enough that even this eight-year-old child knew it. While his father was some kind of businessman (though Keenan wasn’t exactly sure what he did), his mother was a nanny. She cooked and cleaned and took care of two little girls for a very wealthy family a few blocks away. Keenan knew the family well, as he had gone with his mom to work until he was old enough to go to school, and now he went over every day after school. He knew well enough that jeans and t-shirts were the right clothes for his mother’s job.

“What about church? You wear dresses to church!”

“I don’t need any new dresses for church, Keenan. We hardly ever go anyway.” Keenan nodded sadly. He enjoyed church. The people were friendly, and the music was fun. It was the only place Keenan felt that he could forget that he was wearing clothes that were too small.

Keenan’s mom took him by the hand and pulled him towards the boys’ section. As they went, Keenan felt someone’s eyes watching him. He knew the feeling well. He felt it at school when the other kids, and sometimes the teachers, stared at him as he walked down the hall. He wasn’t surprised to feel it here too. He turned, expecting to find an older woman tut-tutting about the state of his clothes or some other imagined slight, but instead, he found a young man with skin as dark as his own, a rare sight in this town.

The man caught Keenan looking at him and flashed him a smile. Keenan smiled shyly in return. Apparently, the man took that as an invitation to approach, because in a few strides, he was suddenly standing next to him.

“Excuse me, Miss,” he said to Keenan’s mother.

His mom stopped and turned toward the man with a sigh. “Yes?” When she actually saw the man, though, she stopped short, her eyes widening at the sight of him.

“I’m sorry for eavesdropping,” he said, “but I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation.”

Keenan mom’s opened her mouth, but no sound came out

“My name is Drew. I think I was a lot like your boy there when I was a kid,” the man continued. “My clothes never fit right; I was always too skinny. My momma made sure I ate, but sometimes, it just wasn’t enough for a growing boy.”

Without a word, Keenan’s mom nodded along, still speechless.

“A few years ago, someone helped me get on my feet,” Drew explained. “And I’ve been doing okay since. He wouldn’t let me pay him back; he told me to help someone else one day when I could. When I heard you and your boy talking just now, I knew it should be you. Miss, would you let me pay for your boy’s clothes, and if you’ll let me, that dress?”

Keenan had never seen his mother cry before. So, when she burst into tears, Keenan didn’t know what to do. She never let go of his hand, so he squeezed it and said, “It’s okay, Momma.”

When her tears had slowed enough so that she could talk, she thanked the man. “I feel guilty for saying yes,” she said.

“Please don’t,” Drew said. “I know it’s not easy to accept help. It wasn’t for me, either. But you seem like good people. Thing is, you can’t help anyone else if you’re in a bad place yourself, you know? Something tells me that when you get on your feet, you’ll turn around and help someone else, and that’s all I can ask.”

Drew followed them around the store and helped Keenan pick out clothes that fit well and were well-made. He wouldn’t let them argue with him on the price. Soon, their cart was filled with several pairs of pants, a few shirts, and even a brand new pair of sneakers.

When they walked towards the cash registers to pay, the man stopped them in front of the women’s section. “Don’t think I forgot about that dress,” he told Keenan’s mom.

“I couldn’t ask you to pay for that,” she insisted. “Clothes for my son are one thing; he needs those. But I don’t need a dress.”

“Tell you what,” the man said. “I’ll make you a deal. I buy you that dress, and you promise me to get yourself and your family to church a little more often. What do you say?”

Keenan’s mom nodded silently, picked the dress off the rack, and took it into the dressing room while Keenan waited with the man. In a few minutes, she came back out wearing the dress. Keenan nearly gasped. “Momma! You look so pretty!” The truth was, Keenan always thought his mother was pretty, even in her jeans and t-shirts, but now her outfit matched her looks.

His mom put her hand over her mouth as she started crying again. “Are you sure?” she asked Drew. “I really can’t ask you to-”

“Well, now that I’ve seen how pretty that dress is on you, I am more sure than I was before!”

After Momma changed out of the dress, they walked to the cash registers together. As soon as the cashier was done scanning all of their items, Drew quickly swiped his card, signed the receipt, gave them a bright smile, and left before they could thank him again.

As they watched him leave the store, Keenan’s mom turned to him and said, “That’s gonna be us someday, Keenan. Someday, we’re gonna help someone else the way he helped us, and we won’t ask for anything in return, either. We’re gonna do good for the sake of doing good because we can. How does that sound?”

Keenan smiled back at her. To him, that sounded pretty good.

Jack held up the third loaf of bread.

“Did you lose count in your cart?” she smiled. “Sixty is young for your mind to be going.”

“Well, one of them is olive oil and rosemary, and you never know how much toast you’ll want.”

Lindsay studied the kitchen counter.

“We didn’t get the place a toaster yet, did we?” he asked.

Lindsay shook her head, lips pursed in amusement. Jack had known the expression since their first date in college, dinner before Chariots of Fire, though she had smiled that way less often since their daughter and grandchildren had moved across the country. Her look made Jack happy. They had arrived less than four hours ago, but Lindsay had already drawn youth from the lake.

Jack pulled their one skillet from beneath the counter. “Here. We’ll make our toast the old-fashioned way.”

“We? Toaster or not, when was the last time Jack Hamilton made his own toast?”

“I can make toast.” He gestured with the skillet and clanked it down on the burner. “I can rough it.”

“Yes,” Lindsay said, “rough it.” She took his hand like a schoolgirl and led him to Black Dog Landing’s sitting room, where windows ran the length of the cottage. “It’s a hard knock life by the lake.”

From their position on the dividing bluff, Jack and Lindsay could gaze at most of Keuka Lake’s western branch. The first snow had begun falling, large flakes that dissolved in the waves or lay on the wood of their dock. Since the property had become theirs, they had spent just one other night in Black Dog Landing, in October on the closing date. There had been no other time, not until these days between Christmas and the New Year. We should do something, Lindsay had said, after Gina’s family goes home on the 27th. He had asked what, and she had answered, We should go to the lake. He thought the travel would be too much trouble, but the next afternoon, Lindsay had spent hours with photo albums of their old vacations, and Jack relented.

He put his arm around her. “It’s ours,” he said.

“It’s ours.” She squeezed him. “And not just for a week.”

“For good,” he nodded. “For always.”

She chuckled and pointed to the far shore, three-quarters of a mile away. “Remember that house we rented over there, across from the state park? Where the wind picked up the table’s umbrella and shattered the glass.”

“It was further north, but I do. I remember writing an apology and paying the bill, too.”

She leaned in close, putting her head against his chest. “Well, now it’s all ours to break.”

Her reflection in the window appeared young, with her hair dyed its cherished auburn and the light obscuring her gentle wrinkles. Jack looked old beside her. He could no longer call his mustache salted and peppered: it was grey as the thin hair he blamed on office stress. He carried more weight than he should, so that his doctor had begun to mention blood sugar and cholesterol. He could exercise more when he retired next year, or the year after. He would swim from the dock every morning. He and Lindsay would paddle every day from May till October, not just for a stolen week at a rental every half decade or so. He looked to the yard below their second-story deck, where snow whitened the nose of the orange tandem kayak he’d purchased with the house. Long hours and fiscal prudence had yielded rewards: in retirement, the bluff on Keuka Lake would be their home for seven months each year.

“The snow’s really picking up,” Lindsay observed.

“That’s why we have three loaves of bread.”

“It’s a romantic place to be stuck.”

“We won’t be stuck long,” Jack said, “which is why we could come. The temp will hit sixty in two days, and all of it will melt. All eight to ten inches.”

“It’s crazy,” she said, “sixty in December.”

“That’s climate change for you. But it’ll get the road clear.”

“When do they stop maintaining it?”

“The sign says no maintenance November through March. It’s not worth the effort for them to plow the road for these vacation homes on the bluff. Which means you shouldn’t get used to this Christmas getaway.”

“No,” Lindsay said, “but just this once, stuck will be nice.” She pecked his cheek.

“Thank you, Jack.”

#

He woke just before dawn to a strange sound. Several foggy seconds passed before Jack realized it came from Lindsay. She made urgent, speechless groans, and the left side of her face drooped.

#

They had first rented Black Dog Landing 25 years earlier.

“I can’t find the goddamn light switch anywhere,” Jack had said.

“Me neither!” Lindsay laughed.

They had to dine beneath a dark chandelier that first night, until their daughter found the switch. It was on the rail post for the stairs, which they had passed a dozen times.

“Who puts a light switch on a railing?” Gina asked.

“Funny, isn’t it?” Lindsay said. “There are a lot of quirks to these old places.”

“Construction was less standard when these cottages were built,” Jack told their daughter, “and they were only meant for summer homes.”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t you remember how steep a hill we drove down? A few inches of snow would make it totally impassible. People don’t live here in winter.”

“No, I mean what Mom said, about quirks in old houses. Are there more?”

Lindsay smiled. “We’ll find all the quirks we can, and we’ll know them all when we come back next year.”

But they had not returned the next year because Jack had to prepare for a merger, and then had to train new staff, and then oversee combined departments. Six years elapsed before they returned to Black Dog Landing, so Gina had been 17 instead of 11 and spent much of their vacation on the phone in the kitchen, more interested in calling her boyfriend than exploring.

#

“Lindsay? Lindsay!”

She gripped his wrist and made the same desperate groans. Her left arm dangled uselessly at her side. She was crying.

“Hang on, Linds. Just hang on.” He picked his phone up from the nightstand and dialed 911. It did not ring, and no one picked up. As he hit redial, Jack saw the empty bars and the asterisk showing no signal. He threw off the sheets and dashed to the wifi router in the living room. No lights shined green. Jack groped the dark kitchen wall and picked up the phone, but there was no dial tone, and he left the receiver dangling from its cord to run in his pajamas to the porch.

The snow rose halfway to his shin and buried their Lexus. He could not tell where their yard ended and the road began. He looked left and right for neighbors’ lights but saw none—of course there were none. But two houses over he saw a fallen tree and wires down beneath.

#

Black Dog Landing had not been available during their later vacations on Keuka Lake—he figured a new owner had been less inclined to rent—but five years before their purchase, he and Lindsey had rented a cottage just a few hundred yards down the bluff. Kayaking north, Lindsay chirped, “There it is!”

Jack recognized it immediately. When Lindsay browsed rental property listings along the lake and, less often, when they found the week to stay in one, they still compared the houses to Black Dog Landing.

Lindsay held up her phone. “I’m texting a picture to Gina. I’m asking her if she remembers where the light switch is.”

“It won’t go through, Linds. There’s no signal here.”

“Just sent! We must be out far enough from the bluff.”

They had paddled a while more, until they drifted alongside the beach at Keuka State Park. People of all ages swam. Outside the lifeguarded area, a father and daughter threw a tennis ball into the water for their black lab. Jack and Lindsay drifted and watched for a long time.

“We should come here more often,” Lindsay had said.

#

He wrapped the blanket around his wife’s shoulders and held them. He looked at her nose because he could not bear the fear in her eyes.

“The lines are down, so we have no phone, no wifi and no signal. Even if I dug out the car, we’d never get it up the hill. We have to go on the water.”

Lindsay shook her head.

“We have to, Linds. We have to. When we’re out enough from the bluff we’ll have signal. I can make a call. I can get you to the park. It’s open year-round. Road crews probably already have it clear, and they can have an ambulance waiting. I’ll be back for you as soon as I can.”

She groaned. When he turned back toward her, Lindsay looked at him sadly with her drooping face, as though she expected him to understand. “I’ll be back,” he said, and she did not try again.

The second story deck had sheltered the kayak’s back half. Snow had gotten into the front seat where Lindsay would have to ride, but there was no other choice; the one paddling had to sit in the rear. He gripped the orange plastic and dragged it backward out of the snow. He grunted with the effort of flipping it over, lifted and dropped the nose three times to bang out what snow he could, then flipped the kayak right-side up and pulled out more snow with his hands. He had forgotten gloves inside. With the seat as clear as Jack could make it—he would grab blankets, towels—he hoisted the kayak onto the drifted white and shoved it: the boat slid a couple feet until the nose pushed down into the snow. Jack trudged beside the boat, lifted the front forward, and pushed again.

A few rays of sun emerged from behind the clouds. Flakes drifted lazily from the sky. Lindsay had planned for him to get the fireplace burning while she made coffee, and then they would watch the sunrise together.

He lifted the kayak’s front atop the snow a third time and pushed toward the shore. They could not use the dock: stepping down from it into the boat would be too precarious for Lindsay. He’d help her in on land, then shove the kayak into the water. He’d have to step through the lake to get in, carefully. His feet would be cold but alright because they had to be, but if he dumped Lindsay into the winter water she would never make it.

#

He had never kayaked before college. He had only done it then at Lindsay’s urging.

“It’ll be fun,” she said, “and a trip is a trip,” so he’d ridden in the student activities van with the others to the south end of Keuka Lake. An alumnus who had hauled the kayaks on a trailer gave them lifejackets and brief instructions.

“What if I flip it?” Jack had asked.

“Then you’re wet. Stop worrying,” Lindsay said.

The lake had been calm that day, so after some early wobbles, he avoided overturning. He paddled beside Lindsay for two hours that afternoon. He felt sunburn on the ride back to campus and did not care, and he knew he loved her.

“I haven’t gone for a paddle since camp, when I was a girl,” Lindsay had said. “I forgot how good it feels.”

#

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

“I think my wife’s had a stroke. We need an ambulance.”

“OK, sir. Tell me your name and address.”

“Jack Hamilton, Lindsay is my wife. We’re off West Bluff Drive.”

“Sir, that’s a seasonal road.”

“I know. We got snowed in, but I’m going to get her to Keuka State Park.”

“How are you transporting her?”

“We’re in a kayak.”

“Jesus.”

The snow picked up again and the wind blew it into his face. He looked at Lindsay’s slumping back ahead of him, surrounded by water and gray clouds, bundled in blankets. He had pulled her pink knit cap over her head. “Hello? Are you still there?”

“Yes, sir, I’m here. I’m sending an ambulance to the park. How far away are you?”

He tried to remember. “I think thirty minutes. I’m paddling as fast I can. Maybe less. What about a boat? Is there a rescue?”

“Not at this time of year, but I’ll try, sir. What’s her condition?”

“Lindsay, honey, how you doing?”

He thought he heard a groan. The wind made it impossible to say.

“I don’t know,” he told the operator, “but she can’t speak. I need to keep going. I need my hands.”

“We’ll get you help as soon as we can.”

Jack dropped the phone into his lap. The operator might have said something more but the wind swallowed the sound and it did not matter. He gripped the paddle and resumed churning the water. The kayak was built for two paddlers, but he was not too old to fight. His arms ripped the paddle through the lake, creating little eddies beside the boat. They passed another cottage. He’d had to paddle so far out to find signal that their progress along the shore seemed slow, so making it beyond each building required dozens of hurried strokes. Jack had taken off his coat because its bulk impeded his movement. Each lift of the paddle flung droplets onto his bare arms, freezing pin points atop burning muscles. His feet had burned after he splashed through the water by the shore, but now they had numbed.

“Look at the snow, Linds,” he called. “Look how it falls into the water. If you look close, you might see some of the flakes melt into it.” The burn in his forearms intensified. He did not know how much longer he could sustain the pace. “We only ever came in the summer,” he said, “and not as often as we should have. It’s pretty in winter. You were right about this, Linds. We should have done this all the time. And we will now. We will.”

His burning forearms pulled, and the kayak moved forward. The nose hit a wave at an awkward angle so the water splashed over the nose. “Sorry, Linds,” he called. “Sorry about the splashing. I know your coat’s warm, but I wish I had more blankets.” He fought the acid forming in his muscles and forced the paddle through the water, left then right then left then right. “I wish we had a motorboat,” he said. “I wish a lot of things.”

#

“We could stay a few days. Come on Jack,” Lindsay said. “Live a little.”

“We don’t even have the furniture here yet,” he had said. “We’re sleeping on an air mattress, for God’s sake. I am too old for an air mattress.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“The sofa set won’t be here for another two weeks.”

“So we get some folding chairs,” Lindsay smiled. “We might not have furniture, but we have a lake house, Jack. For real now. What are a few days on an air mattress? Just look at those leaves.”

Gold and red surrounded Keuka Lake. The little cove by their dock reflected the blazing yellow of the maple shading Black Dog Landing, and when a breeze blew past them on the deck, dozens of the tree’s seeds spun their way to the ground and water.

“We could rent a boat,” she said.

“I bought their kayak, you know.”

“And we’re going out for a paddle this afternoon, but I mean a party boat.”

“Party boat?”

“Like my uncle used to own. A pontoon boat. We should buy one. Can you picture Gina and the kids on it, cruising around the lake with us?”

“We’ll see. Maybe after I retire.”

“I know, I know.” She reached her arms around his neck. “But for now, we could still rent one.”

They had driven back the next morning. Jack had to prepare for a meeting.

#

The boat steered directly toward them, and no other vessel was on the water. He pulled harder, though his forearms begged to slacken.

“That’s help, Linds,” he called. The wind had eased, but if she replied he still could not hear it. “See that boat? That’s them. Hold on, honey.” His paddle shoved the water behind them, and the kayak pushed over the waves. Lindsay sat huddled in the blankets and her knitted hat, framed by the lake. Snow fell gently around her.

Jack pulled the paddle through the water, left then right then left then right, each lift spraying more drops than the last as exhaustion eroded his form, but he pulled the paddle through the water and gritted his teeth against the burn.

“Get her in!” someone shouted as the pontoon boat pulled alongside. Two men lifted Lindsay from beneath her arms. Jack could see the state park a hundred or so yards away. He saw a brown pickup with a plow driving through snow, an ambulance trailing behind.

The two men had laid Lindsay on the pontoon boat’s bench. A woman leaned close to her pink knit cap and face, while the man in the navy coat helped Jack aboard. He stumbled so the man had to catch him. “I’m sorry,” Jack said, “I can’t feel my feet.” He fell onto the bench and watched the woman kneeling by Lindsay hold her wrist. She looked at the man in red beside her with widened eyes and shook her head tightly, then stood to begin chest compressions. The man more slowly shook his head, then restarted the motor. The pontoon boat lumbered toward the park while Jack shivered beneath a blanket and tried to understand what it all meant.

The orange tandem kayak drifted behind them in the falling snow. It rose and fell with the waves as their wake and the current slowly carried it toward Black Dog Landing.

###