Roads not taken #1

Once upon a time, when I was 67 years old, after consulting my list in the aftermath of a recent loss that it was long past time to see the auroras. While researching potential locations where I might do so, I came across an ad for a lovely ice hotel in a place called Kiruna, Sweden. As that was also on my list, I thought it an opportunity I couldn’t pass up, so I packed my bags and made for Sweden. Had I known that it would be the last plane ride I would ever take, I likely would have saved on the airfare of a round trip ticket.

When I arrived at the hotel, I was delighted to find that the town was just as lovely as the countryside. The first night there, the cloud cover prevented me from seeing the northern lights, and would do so for a few days to come, if the forecasters were to be believed. So, the next morning, I bundled up and took a car out into the countryside, with no clear direction in mind, only a strange stirring in my soul that I hadn’t felt in many years, drawing me…somewhere. Never one to ignore my intuition, I followed.

After a long while, I found myself at the gates of a cemetery. For reasons which I couldn’t have explained to you, I parked and got out, wandering through them, and through the fields. Just then, the clouds broke for a moment, and the light snow caught the sun, creating sparkles in the air that looked like diamonds. I laughed aloud, then, to my surprise, heard someone else do the same. Turning towards the sound, I saw her for the first time.

Kneeling beside an older marker, leaning against it comfortably, was an older woman with the most beautiful eyes I’d ever seen, looking up into the glittering snow with a broad smile. At first, I thought she hadn’t seen me, but then she turned and that stunning smile fell on me. In that moment, as the sun faded slowly back behind the clouds, I fell in love.

I walked over to her, my old injury aching, and asked if I could sit with her. She told me, in excellent English, that I’d have to ask her grandmother, pointing to the grave by which she sat. Without hesitating, I removed my hat and nodded respectfully, asking polite permission. The lady smiled again, and patted the ground beside her. I lowered myself gingerly down and she offered me coffee and a sort of cinnamon pastry I’d seen in the village. 

As we ate, we started a conversation that would end up lasting first well into the evening, then the rest of our lives. It was with her, my sweet girl, that I first saw the auroras, huddled close beneath her blanket beside her grandmother. When finally we decided it was too cold to linger any longer, I stood, took her hand, and led her out of the gates, and into the rest of our tomorrows.