An Icy Touch Forgotten
A child of about three sits contentedly on a plush sofa, meticulously brushing the fluffy, cloudlike fur of a long-haired cat. Tiny brown ringlets are arranged wildly on the girl's head, obviously a loving mother had attempted to reign them in with an elastic headband. But the curls had won the battle and the headband, now completely stretched out, had found a new use: the family cat, now effectively strapped to a pillow would not be going anywhere until the child had finished her task.
And then, for no apparent reason, the child drops her brush and scrambles off the couch, dashing to the sliding glass patio door. Outside, downy feathers of snow are floating from the sky. They are immense and wet, good for packing and sticking. The child, eager to discover Manna, unlocks the door with her short and somewhat chubby fingers. The door is heavy, and it resists her attempts to slide it open, but soon it gives out and she's able to open it far enough to scoot outside.
Wide eyed, she stares into the sky, stepping from the door, ignoring the thud it makes as it slides back into place and locks behind her. She opens her mouth wide, pink tongue extending to catch a falling flake. It melts almost before it hits her mouth. She now begins the insurmountable task of exterminating the falling enemy, one by one. She doesn't seem to mind her bare feet are standing on the frozen grass.
Her cheeks, a delicate ivory, are unflushed by the cold. Her little arms and legs, covered only with a thin cotton jumper, are a perfectly natural shade of pink, not the frozen blue one might expect. Like a playful older brother, the wind tousels her short brown hair. Three houses down the street, the same wind convinces a ten year old boy that a snow fort is not really such a great idea and he hurries inside. Soon, the child turns her attention from the plummeting invaders to the oversized tree that grows beside her home. Encrusted with ice, it shimmers like a snow castle.
Exceptionally agile for her age, or better said, unnaturally agile for her age, her small size, lack of muscle, and the slippery branches of the frozen tree are pose no problem to her. In half the time it took her to open the door to this frozen playground she has already ascended and climbed above the lowest branches of the tree. She continues the climb, undaunted by the cold, if not just down right ignoring it. Soon, she has reached a height where she can look down and see into her second floor bedroom window. She imagines that if she could scoot out on the branch far enough, she could open her bedroom window and climb in. A perfectly logical plan for a three year old.
As she edges out farther and farther, the sound of cracking ice and wood makes it apparent that the thin branch can't support the weight of the ice and child. The snap of the branch sounds like thunder. A soundless scream escapes the girl's mouth, fear has constricted her throat and nothing but silent air rushes past her lips.
She falls, and with her a could of ice particles and snow and the overburdened branch. In one instant, the scene changes. No longer are child and ice and branch falling, now only ice and branch fall. The girl has become ice. Flesh has been overtaken with cold. As delicate ice sculpture and branch fall, the living statue moves and gropes for something to cling to, but thin, icicle like hands find no purchase. The small ice body hits the ground with an unhuman crunch. The sound of broken bones is not heard, but the sound of broken ice. It lays unmoving on the ground, ice begining to flow like water and then congeal into a solid form. Now the only thing broken is a glassy branch.
It screams. A voice that is so almost human. In it is fear, and panic, the sound of a thousand snowflakes and shattering ice. The girl does not move, but instead stares at the horror her body has become. She beings to cry, not out of pain or fear, but out of confusion. No teardrops fall from her eyes, the only things that escape her are racking sobs.
Inside the warm home, a mother hears the sound that should be so unnatural to her. Yet she doesn't even realize the alienness of that sound, for a mother knows her child's cry anywhere. She rushes from her place on the couch beside her husband and the warm fire and rushes outside.
Outside, the girl's form seems to melt away to reveal her fragile, but unharmed body. She begins to freeze, the wind wisks all head away from her tiny form, robbing her of any remnant of warmth. A moment later, her mother rushes to her child, sweeping her into loving arms, showering her with kisses and tears. She rushes her daughter inside.
It will be another decade before the girl will again know the complete warmth of the living cold. But when she again feels the ice overtake her body, she will not be afraid, she will accept and explore it with eagerness. But for now and until she becomes an adolescent, the cold will be her enemy, a thing that will cause her illness and pain. For now, it will not be her partner and friend, for she rejected its first contact with her.
It's Summer.
By Me. Send mail to monet@uky.campus.mci.net