Going Under

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 or 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 shock forces my eyes permanently open so I see the ripple, surprised at how small and quiet it is. I descend to the swaying underwater garden. A few fish slip by, gracefully altering their course to bypass the bulky sea creature in their midst.

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

Above, the only evidence our footprints on the snow. Already they are obscured by the drifting, 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.