He squinted into the blackness; white, directionless flakes blinding any hope of seeing shadowy forms. There was nothing to be done. He’d been warned. Forecasters had talked about it for weeks and the past week it was all he heard about. Well, not all. Actually, he’d been distracted by a flurry of phone calls: his. He had been calling around seeking information about Tumbleweed. Not a plant. His dog. He felt bad for the name. He’d have chosen something like Bear or Duke  or Hank. But it was his wife’s choice. She’d gotten the little yellow lab just a month before they married. She said having a dog in the country was good sense. She moved into his bachelor house on their wedding night and put her cozy chic stamp on it within the first month. Seven months later, on a clear summer night, she’d run to town for some ingredient her peach pie needed, and on her return had been killed in a head-on collision.

He’d been sitting outside, Tumbleweed rummaging around the yard, when the police pulled up. The dog seemed to know immediately and let out a long, mournful howl. When an officer handed him a plastic bag with newly purchased cinnamon and a small bag of flour, the world went black for a few moments. The days following were filled with too much of the business of death, but after – After. It had taken his breath away.

He was glad he lived in the country where he didn’t need to make conversation with sympathetic people. Tumbleweed provided as much conversation as he needed and, he thought, he gave to the dog as well as he got. They were a good pair. He’d started calling him Weed, and the dog seemed amenable to the change.

It was close to Valentine’s Day, and he took Weed into town with him to get a box of chocolates. It seemed fitting maybe. Boy, he missed her. And he’d stopped to chat with a few folks several different times before he made the purchase. But when he got back to the car, Weed was nowhere in sight. He’d looked and called. The townsfolk had spread the word. But night had fallen and the dog was still gone. He’d driven home alone with a lump in his throat.

It had been two days and, despite his sorrow, or perhaps because of it, he unwrapped the box he’d purchased. He might not be adept at pink heart types of things, but chocolate? Chocolate would be his defiance of loss. He realized as he sat at the window that they’d not even celebrated their first wedding anniversary. Not only was his dog gone, but this Valentine’s Day – his wedding day one year ago – he was all alone.

He took a small bite of chocolate and forced it down, then opened his front door and whistled and called. The wind blew and snow began edging it’s way over the threshold. Though he closed the door, he strained to see in the black winter storm because he’d learned that there is no such thing as lost hope. People may say there is no way out of a hopeless situation; that hope, once lost, cannot be recovered. But no. Hope is never lost, even in the most desperate times or trying day. He knew that from the experience of a lifetime and from a difficult year. Hope is always present: Perhaps misplaced or difficult to see, but it is never gone. It just takes on an appearance different than known or expected. But it is there just the same. He would not yield that point.

He brushed a slight bit of moisture from his eye, then blinked. Something seemed to tumble with the wind. And it grew larger as it came closer. He slammed open the door.

“Weed! Weed! Tumbleweed!!”

And the dog bounded panting out of the night, nearly knocking him down. They hugged and played and wrestled until he was as soaked with snow as Weed was and the floor was a soggy mess: A glorious, grateful, wonderful mess!

The blizzard wind howled louder, and the two took a last look outside before he firmly shut the door. Then they both settled down enough to have a bit of supper and settle into the comfort of the cozy chic she’d left behind, secure in the light and warmth of home.

Images: camylla-battani-ashxH5TQ8Go-unsplash.jpg; pexels-christy-rice-15265075.jpg; irene-kredenets-wRY_4FGnDIM-unsplash.jpg