We left the Ouachita Range for our Red and Sand. In between, the Delta’s black dirt and squeezebox silos and flat horizon towns refusing to rise once we reached them. We crossed the steel bridges that stitch the Mississipp bank to bank, and we breathed in all this river town dirt slowly, hoping to keep it with us long after we dipped down to Orleans before coming home.
Above us now are the clouds Tina calls slate—long gray-white and unfurling with edges blue and pink. The color comes from the light blue sky we get when our winters turn cold. Our winter garden is gone except the rosemary, sage, and parsley. The house plants we placed around a cheap radiator heater, oil filled, set at 54 and working when I talked with my neighbor, the plants Good, he said last week when I checked in, have fallen stem over stem over the clay pots with sickly green leaves.
The five gallon jugs of water we left under the granite counter have turned to blocks of ice. We use that water for washing our hands in the sink. Temp on the home gauge reads 40 degrees in, 37 out, and the face of the gauge is marred where cold broke the pixels. But the cooler we use for drinking from, a primo, did not break. The hot side tank managed to keep the cold side warm. When I get water from the spout to give the animals, the pump tries to replenish what I took from the jug underneath. It’s a block of ice, too. There’s nothing to draw up.
Tina sits down in front of vestal, loads it with the smallest pieces of wood and lights a match while I unload the car, throw the ball to the dog. Automatic, our bodies have put us back into our routines, no words needed, none exchanged, just doing what has to be done.
And we’re hungry. We had to rush back from Orleans with the cat meowing and scratching at his crate. But before we can go to town and get supper, we have to make sure the fridge works—when we checked it, popsicles in the freezer had bled out of their box. Have to bring the temperature up, make the cabin warm, then, maybe, the fridge will come on and cool and freeze. If it does, we can buy groceries for breakfast—milk and orange juice and yogurt.
I place two jugs of ice by vestal. Open a beer. And so does Tina—the ones in the fridge haven’t frozen yet. Vestal spits fire and sucks in air through the open wheels in her doors. Vestal is the queen bee of our winter. Behind her hearth, the dog pants on the rug. The cat is outside, the only one who’s away, who wants to be in the cold. And I read and Tina checks her phone, waiting for the cabin to thaw.