ICE

The ice broke beneath her. She skated faster.

She remembered the lake.
Frozen. Sparkling. Alive.

The sun made it gleam. The hills cradled it. The water beneath the crust seemed restless, as if plotting an escape.

She watched the older kids glide across the ice. Twirl. Stop with a swoosh. Shaved ice would spray and fall back like glitter.

One day, her sister gave her a pair of skates. Handed down without ceremony.
She didn’t jump for joy. Just nodded. Slung them over her shoulder like she’d seen the others do.
She waited for the bell to ring. Ran with the other kids to the lake.

Her brother helped her tighten the laces. Gave her newspaper for insulation.
He held her hand all afternoon.
She fell. A lot. Her knees bruised. Wrists ached. Ankles wobbled.

But she skated.
Every day after school. She skated.
The lake began to thaw. Older kids disappeared. She stayed.
Alone on the lake, she spun.
Then, a crack.

It splintered beneath her. Water rose, creeping into her boots. The cracks spidered out. The surface groaned.

She didn’t scream.

She skated faster.

Gliding across the dissolving glass like it couldn’t touch her.
Like she was made of something lighter.