Even though I know it’s just a bear coat—the coat is furry and brown with ears sticking off the hood—the sight of it trundling down the sidewalk in the dark, just past 10 p.m., causes my breath to catch. I clutch Will’s arm for safety and to avoid slipping on the ice. The bear draws closer... and closer... until the tuft-lined opening reveals a man of indeterminate age, his breath a puff of smoke against the stark night air. “Hullo,” he says, bumbling past. “Hello,” we say to the bear, glancing at each other before turning our attention to the main attraction, the fire truck.
Minutes earlier: a flash as bright as day accompanied by a rapid succession of gunshots. I’d just lit a candle and when the room went black, I stood holding it, stunned. As it happens, no gunshots were fired, but a transformer on the street corner had blown, taking all the lights on the block with it. “I was in the kitchen and did a duck and roll,” our neighbor texts from the refuge of their house approximately ten steps away. We (me, Will, and the couple next door) make a point to text each other whenever something strange happens, a power outage or no water, and we need to know we’re not alone but don’t want to walk over and talk face-to-face or call. I respond with an emoji I always interpret as "laughing until tears form” but it is actually “face with tears of joy.”
We fumble for our coats and boots, the compulsion to witness, within us, strong. Outside is brighter than in, the new snow like a reflective blanket keeping the earth warm. The night before, I’d whisked from room to room, turning off lights and tucking the house and cats in, and as I passed through the kitchen, I was met by an eerie brightness seeping in and went to the window to look. Breath forming a peach of fog on the glass, I watched the snow fall from the ether in slow, straight lines. Then I went to bed, said a rare prayer, and held Will, already sleeping, tight tight tight.
The next day we got up as usual despite neither of us working—we’d taken the whole day off. Snow had accumulated overnight and throughout the morning, and we joked that it was nature’s way of saying, “Really? Are you sure you want to live here?” Before heading outside to shovel, I made Will, an exemplar of preparedness, change out of his suit. “You can’t wear that,” I informed him, incredulous he’d even entertained the idea. “It’ll get wrinkled and wet!”
We shoveled the walk and driveway, our bundled bodies swishing to and fro. The whole time, I didn’t think about the interview but what I always think about when I shovel: this would be a fun video game. I imagined myself as a tireless avatar whilst trying hard to ignore my real and aching muscles (I’m weak) and focus on the tasks at hand—namely, moving all of the white crap from one area to another, collecting various items revealed when paths are cleared, e.g. insulated gloves, a blowtorch, and avoiding the angry snowman who occasionally attacks and blows snow everywhere.
Back inside, we still had time before needing to leave for the appointment. Toeing around melted coins of snow on the floor, I whipped up a pot of miso soup with leftover rice, tofu, a sprinkle of wakame, and finely sliced green onions. Easy food, as my IBS had been flaring up all week, and we both had butterflies. Whenever I eat miso soup it reminds me of Japan and the weeks we spent there in 2016, during which we got engaged in a tiny Airbnb in Tokyo, on Valentine’s Day, and wandered around Kichijōji holding hands and sipping coffee and ambling down blossom-strewn streets with weathered signs swaying overhead.
“It’s good to eat a little something,” I said. “Like before an exam.” Which it was. It was exactly that—an exam.
We arrived early as planned. It’s something I love about the two of us, Will and I. We are good at getting places and being where we need to be. It’s the whole reason we met. Both of us arrived early to the concert hall, unplanned, we weren’t aware of each other’s existence before then, but standing in the lobby with our silhouettes reflected in the polished floor, we started talking. First about Bob Dylan, then Shakespeare, then I forget what else because I was busy trying to figure out how, logistically, I was going to spend the rest of my life with this person from England I’d only just met but knew I needed to be with. Oh, I needed him so badly.
The hotel foyer where the coffee shop is located and where we waited until it was time for Will’s interview reminded me of the Arlene Schnitzer Concert Hall in Portland, Oregon. (Arlene: who died in 2020 and with whom I exchanged pleasantries while working as a tea server at the Japanese Garden, her tuft of white-blond hair like a cattail trembling in the breeze as she sat on the terrace with a friend overlooking the greenery, how I longed to confess to her, quietly, the theater named after you, because of you, is where I met my person, the one I adore more than any other on this planet in this unfathomable universe, you, Arlene, are part of my love story.) Situated in downtown Minneapolis, the Hotel Emery is lush and I mean lush with plants and people with laptops and fluted marble columns like trunks of great oaks and brass accents and a glass fireplace with plush crimson seating, where we sipped oat milk cappuccinos and admired the natural light flooding down from the ceiling and, beyond that, the sky. For a moment, I lamented not bringing a camera despite having purposefully chosen not to. I’m a bad photographer. Really, I am. Bad in the sense that I don’t capitalize on notable moments, forgoing material preservation in favor of connecting more deeply with presence, a feat I am forever attempting and failing at.
So, no. Minus the obligatory phone shot of Will in his suit to share with family, I did not visually record or document the occasion. Rather, I held Will’s hand and quizzed him. How many representatives are there in the House? Easy. 435. Name two states that border Canada. Washington and Minnesota, naturally. Having studied the U.S. citizenship test questions for months and been a permanent resident for years, Will had the answers down pat. “You’re gonna do great,” I said, squeezing his fingers between mine. I meant it. I wasn’t nervous for him at all.
Snow erased the tops of the buildings as we wound through the skyway linking the Hotel Emery to the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services Field Office. I couldn’t help but hum “Skyway” by The Replacements, a perfect song, in my opinion, and one that makes me cry, as all perfect songs do. I shook my head at the improbability of us being in that place let alone finding each other at the tender ages of twenty-one and twenty-two; how all of us move through the world, every day, finding and losing each other and discovering portals in ourselves along the way. The impossibility of it all, manifesting as a lump in my throat that would not leave and I did not ask it.
The combined test and interview took less than twenty minutes. While waiting for my husband to emerge from a room I was not permitted, I looked out the window at the city dissolving and the other people waiting and the signs. PHOTOGRAPHY PROHIBITED BEYOND THIS POINT - I felt justified in my choice to leave the kids, I mean, cameras at home. NO CELL PHONE USE IN THIS AREA - a bold-faced directive next to which everyone scrolled. Didn’t they know how to break the rules discreetly? It's simple. You put your phone slightly inside your purse or pocket, just enough to conceal it, but you can still look down and see it if you need to and you will because, be real, any length of time is too long to go without checking your device if you’re addicted or have OCD tendencies, as I do.
I turned off my phone, and sat.
In an alternate reality, I would be the one applying for citizenship in a foreign land where I was not born and do not have family or anyone, really, other than the person I fell in love with. Except I don’t have the same affinity for the U.K. that Will does for the U.S. Even before he had a green card and regularly came to America as a visitor, Will belonged. At first, it irked me, how well he fit in, whereas I struggled no matter where I went. Now it fills me with deep peace to know he’s part of this place that, in spite of its glaring problems, has nurtured him and us so much.
Every Monday night, Will and I tune in to “The Rachel Maddow Show” - a solemn TV dinner date - for a sobering look at the current state of American politics. (Rachel: who I have an unabashed crush on, she is so smart and sexy, on my list if you know what I mean, how I long to curl up in front of her when everything comes crashing down, tell me, Rachel, tell me how it all ends.) Lately, the show’s focus has been the imminent demise of democracy, which hinges almost exclusively on the outcome of the upcoming election. In preparation for his citizenship interview, Will pondered the question: Why do you want to become a U.S. citizen? His answer: so he can VOTE! An obvious response and yet, if you are a natural born citizen, like I am, the privilege is perhaps less stunning because it is so inherent. To acquire the right through naturalization, though, is nothing short of extraordinary, given such man-made freedoms are not ubiquitous, people are vying for similar liberties across the globe each day, risking so much in pursuit of a better life and—
Will emerged slightly sweaty but smiling, and I immediately stood up and threw my arms around him. Softly, I said, “Okay, but just to confirm, you passed, right?”
Yes, yes, a resounding “YES!”
Cue: face with tears of joy.
*
When the transformer blows, before I know that’s what it is, and I hear BANG BANG BANG, my initial reaction is no no no, this can't be happening, we’re not having a shooting on our block the same day Will learns he’s going to become a U.S. citizen. There’s no way we’re going to be able to explain that to his family in England, or justify our decision to remain here. That is not happening. Rewind the clock.
Maybe it did; maybe the wheel of fate got rewound because the second we step outside and shuffle past the bear, it’s obvious everything is fine. The fire truck idles as people in uniform descend and reassure folks that the energy company is aware of the issue and will be out to fix it soon. No flames or cause for alarm.
We go to bed. Some hours later, the lights come flooding back on, a great awakening, and I leap up and scurry from room to room, turning things off again. The cats, confused, rouse in hopes of breakfast, and I have to inform them, no, it’s not even close to that time. Go back to bed! I peek outside. The sky is white even though it’s dark. A plane, invisible, whooshes overhead. I shiver before returning to the warmth of our nest. Will is sleeping soundly, and when I wrap my arms around him, it’s with such depth and force, I think he might become a diamond. 𓇢𓆸
Reflecting Light is currently free to read. If you enjoyed this piece and would like to support the writer, me, you are more than welcome to buy me a coffee. ❤️
“First about Bob Dylan, then Shakespeare, then I forget what else because I was busy trying to figure out how, logistically, I was going to spend the rest of my life with this person from England I’d only just met but knew I needed to be with” might be one of the sweetest thing I’ve ever read. May we all be loved so hard that we turn to diamonds. (PS, I also have a crush on Rachel)
You had me hooked and I didn’t mind it one bit. It was the perfect writing piece to awaken me for the day. Thank you.