The Sacred Season

I returned to a Maine of clean sidewalks, most of fall’s foliage raked and packed in bags for Thursday morning garbage pickup. A consorted effort must have brought neighbors to the midnight ritual of raking, as evidenced by the trash bags in their driveways. (I wanted to believe that in strange Maine all clearing rituals happened in the dark, like the all-night shoveling of snow during winter storms.)

Before I left for NYC three weeks ago to visit my mother, there was color in the horizon and piles of crunchy leaves in parking lots like filling in a bounce house, of which even children couldn’t resist jumping into. Now, the fiery pleasure of fall’s foliage was collected and dispensed with. Even branches contorted and twisted in a nude, motionless dance with the wind: “Who needs leaves! Happy to be rid of the extra weight,” they seemed to whisper.

There was other evidence of coming winter: the temperature dropped to 30 degrees at midday, rain was freezing, tourists no longer reveled in town, silence enveloped the city, wool scarves hid smiles and muffled salutations, and steely grey clouds moved across the horizon like caravans of pilgrims on a trip to the most sacred of seasons, winter.

I marveled at the talk and fear of winter, predicted to start in several weeks, even for Mainers who were familiar with its trials and tribulations. The underlying concerns were… How many inches of snow? How many sleepless nights of shoveling? What costs of heating oil? How much wood? How many car batteries to replace? How many slips, falls, broken bones? Cases of pneumonia? Still, it was expected winter test the grit:  The grey/white bitch ruled heaven and earth and demanded respect, but mostly surrender-- settling in every layer of skin, muscle, bone, and cell until reaching the soul, where she rested.

Then I walked downtown. More evidence of dying fall and coming winter: no clusters of traffic and pedestrians at the four way stops, or crowds of people entering and exiting coffee shops. Suddenly, my heart skipped a beat. My Turkish friend’s shop was closed. The store of eastern and exotic wonders for a dowdy, plain Jane of a town was replaced by exercise/active gear, all scrawny tights and leggings on faceless mannequins posing by the window once showcasing magic carpets handmade in Turkey and standing ceramic plates drawn with men in headdress marching somberly to war or religious ceremonies. That first winter Fiyek turned of the lights to show me how the plates glowed in the dark. Like me, he didn’t retreat in winter: All the others hibernated and/or knitted. 

His family had sent him to establish a pottery connection in the NE United States, but no one was biting -- or shopping -- for that matter. “Too exotic for this place,” I told him. Mostly, he was homesick. It was snowing outside the first time we drank Italian wine he served in colorful tiny Turkish glasses. “Have you ever been to Cappadocia?” he asked. I’d never heard of it. He googled it on the computer on his desk and stared wistfully at the images. “They have wild horses there.” He was still young that first winter and his eyes were bright black. Not yet bored of this place I thought. When we kissed, I ran my fingers into his thick, wavy hair, then nuzzled his neck making him laugh.

I returned to the store during that winter and two others that followed (too much action in town and in his shop in other seasons). Sometimes, he shared with me the Turkish Delight on his desk, and sometimes we drank wine and listened to sad Turkish singers with shrill voices that penetrated the early twilight. When he was happy, he bent his knees and shook his shoulders doing the male version of the belly dance, and it made me giggle. 

When we were intimate in the backroom, standing against the wall by the shelves of unsold bowls and servers, he put his hands to his face when he came, then waved me out of the store when we were done. I promised myself never to return for his arrogant dismissal. But I returned anyway.

The last time I saw him he was older with grey in his hair and fine lines around his dark eyes that made his upper cheek seem to crack. Finally, he was bored of Maine. I never understood him-- maybe because he was Muslim or maybe because he was married; I thought he might be both, but I never confirmed either. It wasn't that type of relationship.

Now he was gone to Cappadocia and its wild horses, and we would no longer rebel together against the silence of the sacred winter. Read my exciting memoir, "The Continent of Ruby," available at: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00TT5DDWO.