Hermione steps from the shower, towel dries and slides into faded jeans.   I suppose it must be done. 

She grabs an ancient red boiled jacked from the wooden hook beside the cabin door, and moments later she backs the Volvo into the side of the concrete drive, then pulls forward.  Hermione can never remember the rules for snow, but tries for good measure.   She knows she must keep moving so as not to lose traction, but is she supposed to lower the gear or shift into high?  Red dirt mush covers the incline just ahead.

Somehow she makes it to the edge of the drive.  Hmmm.  Maybe  there is mail.  OK, On an incline, wheel in or out?

 In, she decides. Hermione stops and checks the box.  Back in the car, she presses the pedal to accelerate.  The tires spin.  Damn.  Why did I stop?  Why didn’t I remember the need to keep moving? 

Pushing the gas is worthless.  Tires spin.  Mud flies.  She turns the tires, and begins a rock.  The car frees, and Hermione enters the highway.

No list.  Fuck.  Did I bring my purse?  She slides her hand under the seat and feels glove leather.  The small town isn’t far, and in a few minutes Hermione is on Main.  She parks near a side-street at the local five and dime.  Ten minutes later she exits the store, a few bags in tow.  Tissue paper, string, assorted candies, candles, and  a few trinkets for children.

Hermione plops the bags into the trunk and settles into the car.  A familiar Christmas song is playing, and without warning, she feels the trace of a tear.  Buck up.  She hears the voice of her father. 

So far so good, this is only the first tear of the season.  She takes a deep breath.  She feels it coming, the tear’s mandatory fall, the slide-show in her head.  She yields . There are no options here.  No rules.  No notes.  No practice.

Suddenly Hermione is walking in the snow.  A toddler rides the broad shoulders of the man beside her.  A brown lab lopes in front of the pair, long before they divorce.  Next slide.  A blonde teenager is saying, Aunt Hermione, I have a question.  Her blue eyes.  Her wide smile.  Her high cheekbones.  This constant questioning before she loses her head.   Next slide.  A mother in the kitchen, humming, the cloves are being placed on a fat and tender  ham.  This mother has not yet collided within eyesight of her home.  Next slide.   

No damn it.  I will not watch another slide.  Not this year.  I am in the present.  I have felt joy.  I am here now.

Hermione remembers there are still things she still must buy.  Razors.  Bernadette said the children want Razors. She must go to the giant chain.  Surely snow will keep the shoppers at bay.

No such luck.  Parking places are few, and Hermione decides she will enjoy the brisk walk from the side lane.  Longer strides, less crowded than the alternative.  She parallels into line, retrieves her purse once again, and exits the car.

Within minutes Hermione is saying hello to two women she hasn’t seen in decades. One is blonde.  Fit.  Still showing curves.  The other is distracting.  Suzanne.  Suzanne’s  make-up is thickly pink and caked . Aging has not tempered Suzanne’s preference for the exaggerated.  

Hermione wants to reach up and write her initials into the cheek of this yesteryear acquaintance.  It is only now that Hermione considers her own impression. She has not brushed her hair.  She is free of paint and glow.  She’s wearing a loose tee under the nubby coat.  And  galoshes.  She is wearing black galoshes.  A brunette Meg Ryan Andrew once accused.  A Polly Yonder.  You really don’t care, do you?

The real conversation in process pulls her  back to the  moment. How many times can one say the word fine?  How many inflections? Fine.  Fiiiiiiine.  Fi-ne.  Fine.  Fine. Fine.   Small talk is exhausting.   Hermione murmurs the perfunctory, Good to see you and ducks quickly into another aisle.

It is his arm she notices first.  Hermione knows the arm, the span of the shopper’s hand. A hand it seems she felt only a moment ago.  A hand she remembers with love. She wants to rush forward.  She wants to drop back and flee.  She is frozen.  Which gear? Which damn gear? 

  Too late.  The gentleman in the brown coat is turning in her direction.  Hermione looks off toward a shelf on her right. Aren’t things best hidden in the obvious?

Hermione?  Hermione? Is that you?  He reaches and takes her hand.  She hears his slight exhale as he leans and kisses her cheek.  Love, your eyes are large, wild.  I know you hate this.

As he is speaking, he withdraws a cheap black plastic comb from some back pocket and begins to untangle her hair.

My God, Frederic.  You’re always helping me, aren’t you?  Always making me  presentable.

I am, he replies.

Hermione looks into his eyes.  Did you get my e-mail?

I did.  I searched the parking lot for an hour.

And?  She lifts her chin.

Blueberries.  Cream.  One bed.  Let’s get you out of here.