She blew on her chai, causing a pause in the wafting steam. It had snowed last night, and she missed again the steady scrape scrape of her husband’s early morning shoveling. The coat closet door stood ajar, beckoning her to the outdoor task, and her eyes darted to the place where his boots had always stood. Always. Rain or shine, heat or cold. She shook her head, but not with disgust like she had done in the past.

In the past the boots had displeased her. Their appearance and the sound they made matched: clomp, clomp, clompy, clomp. She had bought brand new beautiful boots for him that eventually were given to charity. She had bought a different brand. And another. They both rested in a dark corner of the closet until she finally gave up and gave them away as well.

But now? Now she would have given anything to hear clomp clomp clomp and see snow puddles in a line to the closet. She’d asked the dear Lord in heaven to heal him. Asked and asked. But he was gone now and with him so much of what made her treasure her life. And the boots? She’d kept them. It didn’t make sense to her, but grief and love are seldom logical.

She brought her empty chai cup to the kitchen, slightly comforted by the greenery atop the cupboards and the poinsettia by the window. Next year she might have more desire to decorate.

Maybe, maybe after she shoveled, she’d hike out to that place they’d loved. The fresh air would do her good, and she could carry the goodness to the family Christmas gatherings where love and sympathy would bring her to tears in an awkward sort of way.

As she drove to the starting point of her hike, her mind wandered to grief in general. How many people were having their first Christmas without someone this year? How were they handling it? For that matter, what did the baby in the manger, grown to a boy, do when Joseph died? And later – did Jesus’ friends feel that lump in the throat, eyes-burning burden in the days after the cross? Did they wish, hope, pray for a sign? The Christmas story held plenty: a star, a battalion of angels, shepherds . . .

But for her, well, there were no signs. Eternal life seemed far away and seeing him again did, too.

The newly fallen snow had left everything pure and sparkling. The long hike was absolutely what she needed. Slightly out of breath, she squinted at the sundogs and prayed again, though she couldn’t quite find the words to ask for who knew what. A word of thanks for a life, too short, well-lived. Yes. That would do. And she felt better. She really did, even without the reassurances she wished for.

She started back to her car, then stopped. She gazed down intently, squatted and brushed her hand over what she saw. There it was in the untrodden snow. A bootprint. Larger than her own. Clompy and perfect.

Images: pexels-ryutaro-tsukata-6249388-scaled.jpg; Ron St. Amant.  “Bootprint” by AmericaninCanada is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0