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In the last weeks of winter, right before the time change, Barbara always indulged in a little 5 minute ritual that brought her, probably too much, joy. The sun's angle would send light through frosted windows of their bathroom and into the hallway at just the right height of her face, the heat would kick on in the house and for the first time in months she'd be warm from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes. It was like her own personal thawing from the frigid Philadelphia winter.
This little ray of sunlight was what had convinced her this was the house for them. Melissa had already fallen head over heels in love with the place, "Barb! C'mon it's got a big jetted tub, beautiful kitchen, partial sun garden, first floor laundry, what's missin for you?"
She had been trepidacious at first, thinking it was too much house, switching up and thinking it wasn't enough, the neighbors felt vaguely strange, and then the water heater was somehow too new? When they'd taken one last tour before she though their realtor might quit -- she'd seen the light and felt the heat and heard Melissa call from the next room, "Think I lost ya, Barb, where'd ya go?" with a slight giggle -- she knew she was home. It all fell into place, the house was perfect, and Melissa was perfect; this was all fine and meant to be.
So for the last four years, in the second week of March, she stood in their hallway with her face to the wall and a serene smile on her face as her marrow thawed and she counted her blessings. Every time she'd get carried away (she never used to get carried away, but Melissa taught her there was really no such thing as 'too much of a good thing'). Melissa would walk up behind her and wrap her arms around her waist, press a kiss to her spine, and whisper, "My love, dinner's ready."
The softness of the moment not lost on either of them. On the first night Melissa cooked in the house, she'd yelled out that dinner was ready, the surge of sound through the silence had unnerved Barbara, caused a big, ugly fight. They'd both fled to different rooms, panicked that they'd made a mistake. After a prayer Barbara, who was still angry, left the solace of the bathroom after she'd scrubbed the same spot on the tile 27 times. When she stepped out and saw the light, she knew God was smiling on them, she stopped and stood.
Melissa, whose anger disappeared on the turn of a dime, peaked out of their bedroom and saw Barbara basking in the sunlight, took a photo, stared at her for a little longer, then wrapped her arms around her from behind, "I'll be more mindful, i'll start finding you and whispering, i'm sorry." and then ever a solution finder, had whispered, "let's get take out and watch that bible series on the history channel, hmm?"
The willingness to let go, to adapt, to love Barbara where she was at, allowed Barbara to let it all go, to settle in. So now in the deepest parts of the winter or the throes of a big fight (rarer and rarer but inevitable with two very stubborn women), Barbara would see Melissa's phone screensaver (the picture of Barbara in that spot, with that smile, glowing radiantly) and would remember what was waiting for them on the other side of the season -- love and warmth and sun, just what they'd both been waiting for all their lives (or all winter, which sometimes felt like a lifetime).