The Warmth of Cold

 

It was a familiar sound. One, with this house, I know quite well.

The sound of water gushing out of pipes.

Broken pipes. Washing machine pipes.

The laundry would have to wait. Again.

The day before, my washing machine had never even thawed.

Cold temps. Mounting frustrations. The ever growing mountain of laundry.

My fingers too hastily punch the ever-familiar number. The number to my Rock.

The pipes have burst. At the washing machine.

I’ll be there in a few minutes.

The temperatures begin to get warmer. The laundry pile decreases. The pond of water in the backyard becomes the size of a mud hole. I began to hear children laughing.

Daddy’s coming home.

A little while later, it’s Spring-like. The little-one giggles as I chase after her in the warm sunshine. Daddy is surrounded by tools, repairing the broken pipe.

He’s already repaired our spirits.

I roll down the hill with the 3 year old. Do it again, Mama.

We roll over and over. Never mind that the ground was 17 degrees the night before.

It’s warm now.

The five year old at the woodpile beckons me come help her build a house. We pile the wood higher and higher. We build a castle. All’s well.

It’s warm.

Daddy’s home.