icicle

Cylindrical, triangular, cone shape. It’s thin and transparent. Water stopped by time and temperature. A weapon with a pointed end. Melts in your hands and in your mouth. Aesthetically pleasing, but potentially dangerous. It must be cold; Cold, cold, cold to have it stop like that. Over ledges and bridges and roofs and awnings. Yawning at daybreak to take in the winter scene. Some Winter Wonderland painting come to life of figures in the distance on ice skates. Like they’re out there, but disconnected and not quite real. A stretch in a white tank top. The house is dark and warm. A cocoon, protective of its inhabitants. Science-fiction uncertainty. An unresolved chord, suspension, then moves on. Arnold Schoenberg, we may pay homage.

The icicles have me thinking about this very recent winter. And taking the dog out in the backyard. The snowbanks and wind whipping to such an extent you have to turn your back and face and wait for it to pass. It is not pleasurable. One of those things you hold your breath and just wait for the dog to do his business so you can both get back inside. He doesn’t want to be out there either. He seems confused and questioning like, “Is this some punishment? What happened to the grass?”. Because he’s only two and doesn’t really know. And when he just stands there, you have to sacrifice some of that inner warmth you’ve been conserving by keeping your mouth shut and breathing out of your nose to say, “C’mon, honey. Go pee”. And you have to coax him a little bit over and over again, before he finally and hesitantly and reluctantly puts a paw forward and offers a little sniff to try and find a scent, perhaps somewhere buried beneath all this strange white stuff. The air is dry, yet clear and it reminds me of nights when we would come home from a family party and drop off Nonna at her house in Bloomfield. The cold. The way the air smells. Like snow, like winter, like ice. And how my mom would walk her to the door while I’d watch from the car. We’d see her lights go on as my mom would help her remove her coat and get her settled. These memories seem like they’re unreal. Because they happened so long ago and I haven’t really thought about them in awhile. She probably wouldn’t be in there with her long, but to me, a child, it would feel like an eternity. When I just wanted to get home and go to sleep, or get out of my outfit, or play video games, or hang with friends. I never understood then that those little moments between them, though routine, were precious, fleeting, priceless. Something she would never sacrifice.

Author: Roe

30. she/her. Songwriter & Trek Punk Soul™.

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