The low swoosh and snick of my loom adds a measured counterpoint to the joyous Vivaldi that dances around the room.  Weaving the bright forest green yarn tightly through the background colors in Emma’s Christmas scarf, I think how things seem to be working out perfectly now that I have made my decision.  My energy has bounded back and the heavy dark cloud that had settled over me in the months since Eric’s death has lifted.
          Oh, my sweet Eric.  The younger twin by a busy ten minutes, he had always found life so hard.  As I work, I gaze at the family photos on the low bookcase next to me and smile.  He had had the deep ocean blue eyes of his father and the odd high cheekbones from my family, which Grandma said hinted at some Native American blood in past generations.  Eric was the lone black Irish among the redheads.  My favorite picture was of him and Emma, arm in arm, standing next to Lucy and her littermate, Desi.  When Eric was young, he had loved to watch me weave, and was so fascinated when he learned the story of the Fates, weaving and reweaving the threads of life.  If only I had been blessed with that gift.  

I fix myself some lunch after finishing a section of pattern on Emma’s scarf.  While I sit at the table eating, I watch the snowfall increase and the gusting wind pick up.  The deep snow will delay my plans a bit, but by early April I should be able to make the climb up Black Rock, where we had left his ashes to be scattered by the wind and the elements.  What had that poet said about April being the cruelest month?  It had been April when Desi developed the quick cancer that killed him.  How Eric had loved that dog.  And it was in April that Eric began spiraling downward again, until he was beyond help.
          He had called me on the phone.  “Mom,” he said.  “I love you, Mom, and I want you to always remember that.”
          I knew he needed me to go to him, as I had before, but this time, I heard a shot as I drove around the curve to his house and knew I was too late.  Finding him in the woods had added another heavy layer to the grief of losing him.  But now, after four months of blackness, my mind has cleared and I can focus on what I need to do.
          I’ll finish Emma’s scarf for a belated Christmas, tell her I’m getting a new loom and want to give her my old one.  Lucy, of course, will go to Emma as well.  I have so many mementos to give to the people close to me.
          I glance at the table next to the fireplace, where Eric’s finished scarf lays wrapped in holiday paper and tied with a double loop of ocean blue yarn.  I may want to take it with me.

I see that the storm is approaching white-out conditions and, with Lucy close by, I fill the birdfeeders on the back porch.  As I work my way around to the front with the tin of seed, I keep close against the side of the house for fear of getting lost in the storm.  It’s now roaring with a vengeance.
          While I top off a feeder, Lucy ventures a foot or two off the porch.  Suddenly, she lets out a short, low growl.  I turn to see her flatten her ears and tuck her tail under her backside.  She noses open the front door.  What has scared her so?  The next thing I see is Desi bounding happily toward me.
          “Desi?”  I drop the tin of seed and stare at him.  Surely not Desi, but certainly a Border Collie just like him, with a facemask the mirror image of Lucy’s.  As I gave beyond him, Eric walks out of the storm.
          Suddenly I’m ice cold and can feel myself start to hyperventilate.  Eric takes me gently by the arm and leads me to the bench in the foyer.  He closes the door, his hand still holding mine.
          “Eric?  But you can’t be my Eric.  I found Eric…No!”
          “Mom, we need to be together one last time.  I can be here for just a little while.  Please be calm and look at me.”  He smiles and continues to hold my hands.  “It’s very important that I be here now.”

He helps me out of my coat and boots, and guides me to the sofa near the fireplace, next to where Desi has settled.  He goes into the kitchen, returns with a glass of sherry and sits down beside me.  The warm, heavy, nutty taste of the wine settles me a bit, but I still stare at him without comprehending.  I’m shaking now, my heart is pounding, and tears are running down my cheeks.  How can this be?
          “Oh Mom, I never wanted to cause you such great pain, but I couldn’t stay in this world any longer.  I tried so hard, but it wasn’t to be.  I’m so sorry that I wanted you to be the one to find me, but you’re the one person in my life who could comfort me.  Dying is the final intimacy, if you will, and I was scared and needed you to be close.  Believe that I’m here with you for today.”  With a quiet regard, he gently wipes away my tears.

Eric brings me another glass of sherry and tells me how overjoyed he was to find Desi.  It’s hard for him to explain, he says, but they are on a vision quest of sorts, together in his old Volvo that had given up the ghost many years before.  All of this is beyond my understanding, but his presence comforts me and gradually I relax.
          After a while, I reach for the present I had made him for Christmas and watch as he carefully unwraps the silk and wool scarf.
          “It’s beautiful!  And it has that great shade of blue running through it that you always chose for me.”  He winds it around his neck and admires it.  The he carefully folds it, puts the wrap and yarn tie loosely around it and places it back on the table.

“I see you’re finishing Emma’s,” he says, looking toward the loom in the corner.  “She’s also struggling hard to accept my death.  There’s something you should know.  She’s going to have a son a year from now, and she’ll need you to be there for her.”  He looks intently at me.  “I think they may even name him Eric.”
          I don’t ask how he knows this, or wonder any more about his presence, I just accept it.  I let myself drift along with his stories and shared reminisces of the happy days in our lives.  As night approaches, Eric tucks one of the heavy quilts around me and adds a few more logs to the fire.
          “I’ll be gone by morning,” he says as he settles beside me.
          “Where?”
          “Wherever the wind blows us.  But I’ll always be here with you.  We’ll meet again, you know, but not until you’re a very old woman.”

I awake to find the fire dying and bright sunlight shining in my eyes.  I have no idea what occurred yesterday, whether it was a dream or some trick my mind played on me as a result of extreme stress and grief.  I just know that the numbness is gone and that I feel so comforted and calm for the first time in months.  I realize that I need to stay in the world and feel at peace with Eric’s death.
          The table next to the sofa is empty and there’s no sign of glasses in the sink.  Perhaps it was just a dream, though a very powerful one.

I find Lucy curled up in the back room and coax her outside.  I follow Lucy up the path from the house and down the deserted country road. The diamond-brightness of the snow is sharp even with dark glasses.  Whatever happened to me yesterday was a watershed moment, one that I now know will lead me to the next level in my life. 
          Yards ahead of me, Lucy bounds through the drifts along the side of the road.  Suddenly she comes to a halt and lowers her head.  While I hurry to catch up, she slowly approaches a spot near the bottom of the hill and tentatively paws at something in the snow.
          That’s strange.  What can there be in all that snow?
          As I near her, she backs off and circles nervously around. And once more, I feel that pale icyness pass through me and my heart begin to race.  There, visible through a light dusting of fresh snow, is the unmistakable dark oil spot from a leaky old engine.  And next to it, where Lucy had pawed, the double-looped piece of ocean blue yarn that had bound Eric’s present.