Literary Fiction
2 min
The Ice Storm
Lindy Thompson
All morning branches broke in quick, staccato pops. Each ice covered branch fell into the deep snow and disappeared silently, leaving only a thin snake-like print.
I was worried about my deer down in the ravine a quarter mile from the house. Jack says I shouldn't feed them. He says they are not like us or some person, or a child. When he said, "child" he stopped quite suddenly, having said the word. I didn't react to it, but went into my familiar speech about how the new housing development took their home away so now they had some to ours.
That morning after the ice storm, that morning of fallen branches and ice and snow, I took off for the ravine with feed and water.
The snow entered my boots from the top, but I didn't worry. I knew I wouldn't be long and the snow had finally stopped, so I trudged ahead eyes looking up for branches that might fall. Even from that angle, I spotted the giant Cedar, Last summer, under her sheltering arms, I buried the child's clothing.
Everybody told me not to get excited too early, but I did. As soon as the test was positive, I went out and bought a delicately crocheted pink sweater embroidered with a tiny yellow duck and matching booties. Everyone was right. The child was lost and so was I.
Under the summer moon at midnight, after the blood and the hospital, I buried my memory of her. Tears iced up on my cheeks.
I thought I'd be better by spring. But I wanted nothing to grow. I was glad that this ice and snow so rare in Seattle had covered everything and stopped the city cold for a few days.
The three deer were nosing into the snow as I approached. They didn't bolt. Maybe Jack was right. I'd have to take care of them for as long as they lived in my ravine. It made that promise to them and to myself.
I trampled down a spot, so the snow was hard. They let me spread the feed and put down the water bucket. I backed away and watched them eat until my feet were too cold. We are all survivors I thought. They had this refuge of blackberry brambles, trees, and seclusion—living in a desperate balance. I had a house, fire and husband who skated on thin ice all the time, hoping not to fall through. We had been living in our own ice storm.
I trudged back, never looking up, not wanting to see that Cedar or think about my motives or the dark earth beneath where life would gush forth soon when spring took over.
After the ice storm, after that morning of fallen branches and ice and snow—we all began to melt.
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