Cold Comfort

©2003 Michael E. Warshaw

Walking I stumbled over a shaft of cold sunlight on a
day that was much too bright. Light burned my eyes and I
couldn't see clearly, but it was cold and I shivered with
the chill. I wanted to look at the people passing. I wanted
to see their faces but they were blurred, and I walked on
until I stumbled. Lying there I waited for the cold light
to become clear, wishing it would show me something that I
hadn't seen before, something new and wonderful, something
I could learn from, but it was only light and cold. I
shivered, wishing there was a wind to give reason to my
chill, wind to slice icily through my clothing, and make me
cold to the bone. I also wished as I lay there that the
shaft of sunlight would warm me, countering the cold, and
balancing the chill I wished from the wind. I got neither.
It is discouraging laying there, in a light I cannot
see in, in sun that gives no warmth, in a cold that has no
reason. I wait and nothing comes, and I don't have the
energy to go looking. I can't see the faces of the people
who pass by oblivious. I cannot recognize my friends, but
I am sure that if I could see their faces then maybe I could
reach out. Help me friend, I cannot find the warmth. I have
fallen here and my eyes are dazzled. Can you lead me to the
warmth? But I cannot see their faces and they don't see me
lying here. They just walk by or walk through, occupied
elsewhere, warm in their coats.
Lying here, alone, nowhere to go, no need, there is
nothing to do but sleep, and so I drift off, cold and
uncomfortable, seeking solace in dreams that cannot reach my
waking self, tumbled in the cold sunlight. Into dreamland I
go, hunting comfort, dodging daytime nightmares and the
terrors of the dark.
Sleep mist clears into dream. It is still cold, but
dreaming the light is clear and golden. I am staring into
the window of a secondhand store. I can see shelves of
dishes and old toasters, stereos and cast-off paperbacks.
There are bins of maimed toys, all missing limbs and wheels
and plastic knobs. There are broken fishing poles and
never sold calculators, and racks of clothing.
She is staring at me. We are both cold as she looks at
me looking into the store. She watches me for a while before
she approaches, ever wary, shy, skittish and slightly
afraid. She dare not trust, but in this dream the light is
clear, and she can see my face, so perhaps I might be a
friend, and desperate, she lays fear and distrust aside,
reaching out. If I am a friend, perhaps I can lead her to
the warmth, the warmth that I am trying to dream about.
She approaches, intruding into my dream as she is; I
did not call her up, and this dream is meant to be a selfish
one. I am seeking my warmth. I am seeking my comfort. She
is here anyway, despite my selfish purpose, and she comes to
stand next to me. We stare into the store window together
for a while.
“I like cats”, she told me. “They are furry and warm.
They sleep on top of you and purr. It’s not so cold then…”
“It’s cold right now, though.”
“Yeah. And I don’t have a cat anyway, but I like ‘em.
I can think about purring and warm anyway. They have coats in
there. Jackets, too.”
“Yep”, I replied. “Sweatshirts too.”
“Well, I only like new sweatshirts.” She paused for a
moment. “Only new sweatshirts. I don’t like the idea of
wearing a shirt that someone else has sweated in.”
“Have to agree with you there. That’d be kind of yucky.”
“I keep thinking I could get some money and go in there
and buy a jacket, and get warm, like. I get too lazy, though
, and forget, and then I find myself, um kinda looking in
the window. I’d be warmer with a jacket. I just don’t think
that’s the kind of warmth I’m looking for. You know?”
“Yeah. I think I do.”
“Kinda figures.”
“You want me to buy you a jacket?”, I asked her,
feeling like maybe I could help a bit. Strange. This is MY
dream- it’s supposed to help ME.
“Nah. That’s really sweet of you though. It’s not so
much lack of funds as lack of motivation, you see. But it’s
real nice of you to offer.” She said this shyly, and on her
guard. ‘Don’t trust him, he’s being nice’ was probably
running through her head. Not that I could blame her.
After all, I’m a total stranger to her, even if this is my
dream.
That confuses me too. I mean this is my dream. All I
should have to do is wish that she exists happily ever after
, and dream away whatever troubles her, dream her the warmth
that I’m trying to dream for myself, comfort her and make
everything OK. But I can’t. I’m standing here, dreaming, and
she’s here, and as far as the dream is concerned she’s as
real as everything else. The only thing that’s perfectly
clear is that I’m not going to find the warmth and comfort
I’m looking for in a secondhand store, though there’s that
nagging little voice inside the dream telling me that maybe
I should just make do with second hand comfort.
“It is cold out here”, I finally said to her. “Want to
go get a cup of coffee or something? It beats standing in
the cold looking at jackets.”
“Makes more sense anyway”, she replied. “Why not? It
couldn’t hurt anything. You’re nice.”
“But not a cat.”
“No, that you aren’t”
We started down the street toward the café. The street
was fairly crowded here in my dream, but the people weren’t
distinct. The only person I can really see clearly is the
one with me. Everyone else is sort of a blur, a presence
that’s felt and not seen.
I discover that I dream average girls. Not fancy, not
pretty. No knockout, drop-dead gorgeous supermodel types.
Just average and rather plain. She’s a little taller than I
am, maybe two or three inches, kind of an average height.
She has long sort of reddish-brown hair, too brown to be
auburn and too red to be brown. She’s wearing jeans, and a
long-sleeved something or other, No hat. Plain glasses make
an invisible barrier over eyes the color of the sky right
before a thunderstorm. A battered pair of sneakers finishes
the picture.
“I wonder why the sunlight isn’t warm”, I mumbled as we
walked along.
“It’s warm enough when you haven’t frozen yourself so
much you can’t feel it. You can’t blame the sunlight.”
“True enough”
“When you get like that you have to find something more
…” I looked at her. “…Comfortable I suppose. Be damned if
I know what it is though. Sometimes I wonder why I even
bothered to go looking.”
“Is that what you’re doing here? Looking?”
“Nah, I was just sort of wandering along in the haze,
Kinda like you before you started looking in the shop
window.”
“That seems to be going ‘round today.”
“What? Looking in shop windows?”
“Wandering around in the haze.”
“Oh. Yah, I guess it is. It’s a hazy day.”
“Plenty of bright sunshine, no clouds. Things seem
hazy more than the day.”
“That’s what I said. It’s a hazy day.”
“Yeah.” We walked along in silence for a while.
We got to the café, finally. It was louder inside, and
physically warmer, though I still felt cold. She still
looked cold. The place was filled with noise, though it all
seemed to be background: a radio playing something, the
whoosh and hiss of the espresso machine and foaming milk,
and conversation, though no distinct words could be made
out. The air was filled with the smell of coffee, strong,
and the smell of baking things, that odd combination of
sugar and wheat and heat and cinnamon and milk. The smell
was good, but it was a sharp counterpoint to the mood.
“Mmm..”, she said. “I’d like to be that smell.”
“How do you mean?”
“That smells’ nice. It’s something good. Comforting.
Comfort. I think I want to be comfort.”
“You want to be comfort, or do you want to be
comforted?”
“Oh, that’s easy. I want to be comfort. I could do a
lot that way. People would come looking for me. It’s not
nearly as lonely, you know? I think I’m more comforted by
comforting somebody else. I just can’t seem to do it without
getting hurt, though. I think that’s why I want to be that
smell- then I could comfort and not get hurt. Otherwise
it’s too anonymous and too fleeting. A little bit of good
for a little bit of time. One meal for a hungry person.
One blanket for a night. Shoes that will wear out. None of
that lasts. You don’t get to know whoever it is; you don’t
get to know if you really made a difference. And they don’t
know how to find you if they need anything else.”
“You want some commitment from your comfort?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know how to explain it.”
We ordered a pair of Viennese Lattes- milk, espresso,
foamed milk, and with a hearty dose of cinnamon mixed in.
We sweetened them with raw sugar, and found a place to sit,
back in the corner underneath some fairly awful painting the
café owner had scrounged from somewhere. As we sat sipping
our coffees, she continued.
“It’s sort of like seasons too. Like on a winter’s day
, when it’s really cold and clear and you go outside and
your breath freezes in front of your face. It’s cold, but
it’s a good cold. It refreshes you, makes you want to go do
something. It also increases your appreciation for warm
places. You can look outside on a day like that, and know
it’s going to be like that. Always. That lasts. Am I
making any sense?”
“Uh, possibly, but if you’ll pardon my stupidity, I
just don’t get it.”
“You’re not stupid”, she replied. “And you know it.
OK, let me try to explain it this way. I want to be the kind
of comfort that’s like a hug, not just any hug. I’m not
talking about one of those social ‘hi, how are you’ hugs.
I’m talking about one of the real ones, the ones you
remember forever. “
“Forever is a long time”
“Yeah, a very long time. But you remember the shoulder
you cried on when someone who loved you held you. You
remember the way their arms felt around you, the way they
gently caressed your back. You remember the way they
understood, and how even though everything was going wrong,
they made it OK. You remember it, and you’re back there.
That kind of hug never leaves you. That kind of love never
leaves either.”
I was beginning to get it. Funny I slipped off into
dreamland looking for that kind of comfort, and she shows
up. Now, I can’t say I was sure whether or not she was
looking for the same thing, or if she was looking to be the
comfort I was looking for, but anyway, there we were.
“I think I understand what you mean now”, I said.
“It’s kind of like music- you know, like when you have a
favorite song that you put on because it fits your mood, one
that speaks to you, touches your heart. Or like a favorite
book or story, or painting, or making a special meal to
share with someone.”
“You’re starting to get it. Something that isn’t the
thing or activity itself, but something deeper, something
done with understanding and love.”
“Yeah, that’s it.”
“It isn’t easy. To give that kind of comfort, and to
love like that, well it’s hard, and damned dangerous too.
It takes understanding, and that’s scary. It makes you
vulnerable.”
“How do you mean?”
“Understanding isn’t just a one-way thing. It isn’t
enough just to understand the other person. You have to let
them understand you, too. It means you have to let them see
the ugly as well as the pretty things, and it means you have
to see some pretty ugly things yourself. It means letting
others see how you’ve been hurt, and where you hurt and how,
and that means that they will know how they can hurt you.
It’s a great risk you have to take. And you have to make it
safe for the others to take that risk with you.
I fail at it, It’s just much too daunting a task…”
“You seem to be pretty good at it”
“Me? Not at all. I put up too many walls around me.
I never feel safe enough. It’s easy enough to see, I mean
see the pain in others, but to let them see any more than
the fact that it’s there in me… no, I’m not good at it at
all.”
“I can’t blame you for not being trusting, but you seem
to be right now. I mean, after all, you’re here having
coffee with me. You’re even talking to me about comfort.”
She snorted. “Yes, I’m here talking to you about
comfort. On a street full of people you’re the only one I
noticed, probably because you’re as desperate to find
comfort as I am. It shows. And you can’t tell me you didn’t
notice that in me either.”
“I noticed. Your glasses don’t do a good job of hiding
your eyes.”
“Neither do yours. When I first walked up to you,
you looked like you were trying to wish my pain away. Not
wish me away, but wish my pain away. It was a strange kind
of thing, actually. I could see that you were lonely, but
that you were trying to be alone. Instead of wishing I was
gone there you were wishing I didn’t hurt, so I wouldn’t
talk to you and you could be alone, but you weren’t going to
turn me away. And all along, you’ve been trying to figure
out how to make me feel better. You offered to buy me a
coat. You bought me coffee. All you’ve wanted since I met
you is to make me feel better, to feel warm and comforted
and safe and happy.”
She was right. I did want to be alone here in my dream
, to be able to go and find that comfort and warmth and
safety for myself. But when she showed up all it took was
one look into her eyes. Like I said before, the color of
the sky just before a storm, and there was a storm in her
eyes. Not anger, but more like a cyclone of emotion and
turmoil, tinted with a long and deep pain that reminded me
instantly of myself. And I couldn’t let her hurt like that.
I can’t let her hurt like that.
“I can’t bear to see that kind of pain in your eyes and
not try to do something about it”, I said. “I know how bad
it gets, and how awful it is. But if you think you’re bad
at it, well, I’m worse. I can’t even pick myself up.”
I felt awful. I’d come to the realization that I was
being perfectly selfish. I wanted to comfort her as much
because I hurt as she did. I rationalized that some comfort
for someone, somewhere was better than no comfort at all.
“I’m sorry”, I told her. “I’m really being very selfish
…” And she started to cry.
I didn’t know what I had done. I had no reason to hurt
her, and no desire. I just wanted everything to be OK with
her. I wanted it to stop hurting for both of us. Now I had
made her cry. I am not sure I had ever felt lower. For
certain I had managed to screw up my own dream. Comfort.
And all I could do was make somebody cry. The tears came to
my eyes as well.
“I’m sorry”, I told her again. It was a pathetic
apology.
“You’re apologizing? Selfish?… You…you… no, don’t
apologize. You have nothing to apologize for”, she said
through her tears.
“I made you cry.”
“No, no…no… You didn’t make me cry. I just couldn’t
help it. You don’t even know me, yet from the moment I meet
you, you stop thinking about yourself and worry about
comforting me. Then you call yourself selfish? I’m nobody,
just another person on the street and you stop thinking
about yourself to make me feel better. I’ve never been
touched like that before. Everything you want, the warmth
and the comfort and the safety you offer me, for no better
reason other than that I hurt. Whatever you are, it isn’t
selfish.”
“But I want comfort, not hurt. I want it for me yes,
and badly, but I’ll take it any way I can get it, even if
it’s just the satisfaction of being able to help you. That’s
extremely selfish of me.”
“No. Selfish would be demanding it from me, because
you hurt. And you don’t just want it. You need it. Real
and lasting, not temporary. If helping …if comforting me
makes you feel good it doesn’t make you selfish. You have
the ability to love and comfort without demand. Don’t be
surprised if it comes back to you.”
I took her hand. It was soft and warm. And she was
right. It may only be a dream, but I remember exactly the
way her shoulder feels as I cry into it. I remember the
surprising strength and warmth of her arms as she holds me,
and the warmth that spreads through my back as she caresses
it. I remember the wetness of her tears as she cries into
my shoulder, the way her breath shudders as she sobs, and
the softness of the fabric of her shirt as I caress her
back. She is right. You remember it and you can always go
back.

I awake to my beam of sunlight and my cold day, but
something has changed in the moments I dozed. The sunlight
is warm on my shirt, the day cold but crisp. There is a
clear light. Every face on the street around me is clear,
and someone approaches, clearly burdened. I smile at them.
“Can I give you a hand with that?”