Musings of the One Percent

At least we can walk on salted ice

Those hideous glass doors split wide with death on the threshold as I approached. 

Last November froze our unfinished business that couldn't be touched by this August night's heat.

But I've never been the girl to avoid ice patches.

Your sister's hysterical screams from the phone call an hour earlier were still pounding my ear drums. 

They only grew louder in the dim lobby then became slightly muffled when my arms finally found her. 

I had no answers for her tear-soaked confusion. 

No one can begin to understand why life is taken without reason.

My heart caught up with my tongue when I finally asked where you were. 

Something about being in the bathroom. 

The blackest of ice couldn't have made me slip as I crossed the room with unshaken resolve. You probably didn't expect me to be standing there when you opened the door.

Because you've always been the guy to loathe ice patches.

For a moment, that didn't seem to matter. 

Only your lips said my name before you wrapped me into the tightest embrace anyone has ever given me, as if your very life depended on it. 

A cotton sleeve caught your tears as you buried your head into my right shoulder.

For the next 45 seconds, I tried to use my arms as shields against the weight of the world falling on your shoulders.

We stood there holding each other, calming a raging blizzard in a hospital.

You let go and motioned to your sister, saying she needed me more than you did. 

I feel like that was a lie to avoid the ice shards scattered around.

You let me hold your hand on the way home then let go to face the world without your dad, still trying to avoid frozen water below.

But tears had fallen and had at least covered the ice between us.

Maybe someday it will thaw into an ocean so we can play in the waves.