Going Under

As I stand on the frozen lake, you take my photograph. The last sound I hear, I think, is you. Not the camera nor the crack of the ice. It’s you.

Laughing softly as though you’d just remembered a joke.

In November, the water is cold but I only feel it for a second as I slip under. The cold forces my eyes permanently open so I see the ripple, surprised at how small and quiet it is. The sway of the underwater garden. A few fish slip by, probably curious as to how this bulky sea creature could have been in their midst and they not have noticed.

The ice is not nearly as thick as it appears from the upside. In places there are hints of sunlight, gold flecks in the cool water, etching their way through the ice where the wind has blown the snow away. I tread water there, letting the gold imprint itself on my cheeks, my lips.

Above, the only evidence our footprints arching out from the shore onto the lake. Already they are obscured by the drifting snow, the gentle breeze of a sunny November day.

And my red glove, dropped just before you said ‘smile’, lingering near the crevice. The entrance to my new chilly suite.