My Worlds

Tunnel of ice. The promise of sun. I walk towards you or the place where I think you are. Where I want you to be. Where I need you. In sunlight. Beyond the ice. Perhaps there it’s another season. Spring perhaps—rocks and green hills and evergreens running down to the now open waters. Our island in the distance. We will pack a basket and a book and venture there again. Tomorrow. When we too are unfrozen. Released from this cold dream, this frozen world.

You will take my hand. Or so I imagine. I will turn to you, smile, look into your eyes—limpid as the waters. We will turn and move toward the lake, uncover our canoe, and paddle out across the deep, shadowed by the mountains on three sides, toward our island. It’s not where we live. It cannot sustain us. It’s just where we dream. Together. Apart. Side by side. We gaze at the water, the mountains, the shadows, the high frosty clouds that remind us of the wintry corridor from which we have finally emerged. We breathe. One breath. Two. We share our meal. Talk softly. Read our book. We gather our remains and return to the canoe. We paddle back to the mainland.

We know we will return to ice. We will cycle back to our intemperate tunnel. The white icy glare. The promise of sunlight. Again. Someday.