Chapter 4
“You’ll love it here, really.” Anne was trying to be helpful. She was hanging clothes, fluffing pillows that didn’t need it, and helping me organize the guest room that was now my bedroom.
“The school is small and most everyone is friendly,” she told me.
I placated her by smiling but I didn’t feel it. Would I feel anything again, anything except the dull emptiness and raw pain?
Anne smoothed a folded blanket with her manicured hand and put it on the full sized bed that was covered in a white down comforter. She lifted her other hand to rub my back but I dodged the intimacy by reaching for my partially unpacked suitcase. She slowly dropped her hand and moved away. I didn’t want to offend her so I mustered a smile and hers in response was equally polite but just as insincere.
Perhaps the move would be good for me. There were too many memories in Woodland Park. Everywhere I looked I saw him and I remembered our life together. I had seventeen wonderful years with him and although my mother died when I was two, her beautiful, comforting echo was in almost every room, kept alive by the one person who never stopped loving her.
My dad never missed a chance to remind me of her either, “See over there Willow…your mother loved the vibrant colors. She loved the smell in the air, the wild wind; the scent of colder days and the cloud of darker nights.”
I loved autumn too because it’s an effortless time to be outdoors and to feel a sense of affinity with the wilderness and the wildlife that my parents held so dear. Perhaps autumn is cherished because the season is the shortest and we tend to appreciate more what passes through our lives so quickly.
How very well I understand this now…We don’t have time to grow impatient because autumn is so brief. Everything good is brief...
Anne’s knock on my door momentarily distracted me from my musings. I hadn’t even noticed that she had left.
“Willow, when you’re done unpacking I thought we could walk to the Pizzeria for dinner.”
I wasn’t in the mood.
“Um, sure, that sounds nice,” I lied.
Pleased, she added, “It will be good to get out and you can see more of the town.”
My heart was heavy. “Sure thing, I’ll see you downstairs in a few.”
A new town, a pizzeria; old memories intermingled with new ones. Would the reminders never cease?
Every December my dad and I would drive down to Old Colorado City and visit the chocolate factory, and every visit I would choose the same thing - chocolate covered gummi bears. If the buggy was in town my dad never missed a chance to pay for a ride. We would sit there side by side, somewhat quiet but always connected. Sometimes when I looked into his thoughtful brown eyes, I would see his love for me and also his longing for her. She was always with him.
I looked more like my dad – dark hair, brown eyes. He was half Cheyenne and half Scottish. He had only stood at a height of 5’9 but he had always been strong.
My parents met at a bonfire before they graduated from Woodland Park High School and from that moment on were inseparable.
Around the time I turned fourteen my dad brought home a beautiful white and gray puppy with bright, inquisitive yellow eyes. She was a Siberian Husky and I called her Pandora, or Panda for short. She was my first and only pet – ‘a companion who would watch out for me’ my dad explained. He didn’t need to, I loved her right away. She was somewhat mischievous but hopelessly devoted to me. She was the only real friend I had and she made the trip with me.
With my fingertips I parted the white curtains to glance down below. I could see her aimlessly meandering through the back yard, checking out her new surroundings. She caught sight of me in the second story window and wagged her tail. I gave her a small wave. As kind as Anne was, Pandora was the only one who understood me.
My mother was Tanith Davidenka Scott. My father said I favored her, but only with my features. I could only dream of what she must have been like as I had few memories of her. I remembered her striking smile and feeling warmly content in her arms. I even recalled her long, slim fingers running through my hair as she hummed a lullaby. Other than that, what I knew of her were memories my dad had shared and seeing her through photographs, which were everywhere. My mother had long blond hair, exotic blue eyes and pale skin. In photos she was more or less the same height as my father; 5’7 perhaps?
She didn’t have much family, at least any that she kept in touch with, but my dad wouldn’t expound on the matter, only briefly stating that she was born in Kuybyshev, now known as Samara; she came to the United States with her father when she was a child. He had proudly stated that she spoke English with the faintest of accents and had done very well in school, better than me in fact. The gist of what I got from him was that he was fiercely protective of her and that she had sacrificed a lot to be with him. The rest was a mystery to me but I always thought my dad would be around long enough to eventually tell me everything. Sadly reconciled I shook my head.
There is never enough time, and there aren’t many chances. I guess we have to make the most of the ones we do have and we should never be careless enough to let the others slip away.