The Pond.

It was as if I had awoken from a deep sleep, only I was standing straight up, and I found myself in a strange clearing I couldn’t quite recall seeing in the past. I felt an overwhelming sense that, regardless of my memory, I should know where I was, but I just couldn’t seem to place it. The ground was covered in a pure blanket of snow, and although everything dawned the touch of the mid-winter’s frost, the air was gentle and warm. I’d never been so contented while surrounded by ice; I’d never felt so invited by the cold, but it called to me on this day. I stood just before a sea of proud spruce trees stretching around the entire clearing, but my eyes were drawn quickly to the gleaming coming from the middle. Even my steps were easier and quieter than ever before; in this wonderland, the powdery snow simply made way for each of my steps as if it were eager for me to reach my destination.

The source of the gleaming was a large, round sheet of ice, perfectly clear of any snow or debris, pristine as crystal. I hesitated to set foot on it, not wanting to impose myself upon its beautiful, fragile surface, but as I focused on it, I felt the call of this strangely familiar winter once again. I stepped onto the pond, but the ice did not heave, or crack, or moan; it rose to meet each step, it supported my curiosity and carried me to the center. I crouched to gaze into the frozen mirror beneath me, but instead I peered through and into the magic beneath the calm surface.

It was almost dream-like, the way life beneath the pond danced and sang. I suppose I had always known that life continued on in the dead of winter, but in all my hurried, teeth chattering walks through the cold, I’d never witnessed it. Water swirled inches from my eyes as the life that called the pond home wizzed past. Two beaver kits played a game of tag, darting in and out of the reeds and grass that laid dormant beneath the surface. I was laid on my stomach, hands and face pressed into the ice like a child at a candy store, and still, I did not feel the cold. I only felt joy, and the ever-present feeling that I’d seen this all before.

As the kits tired from their energetic games, they paddled their way to the dam just beyond my eye line, and the colour beneath the water begun to change from a dreamy, sapphire blue to a murky green and brown. The stringy, brown weeds flowed in the strangest way, as if they were simply floating there, not attached to the pond floor. They seemed out of place. I felt a rush of cold flow from my scalp to my neck.

They were out of place.

They weren’t weeds.

I slowly rose to my knees, and paused to sit back on my heels. The clearing remained gentle, pure, and empty, but the air was colder now. Why did the feeling that I’d been there before no longer fill me with wonder and excitement? Why did the gentle light streaming through the trees no longer feel like a warm smile and instead like a firm reminder that soon, it will all be dark?

I rocked back onto my hands, and stared down into the water. New colours emerged from the depths and floated to the surface. Ivory and emerald. I gazed down at not my reflection, but my lifeless body. My skin and my eyes. The rush of cold flowed from my heart to every corner and edge of my body and soul. I felt the dread I’ve always felt in the winter. I felt pain, and sadness, and loss.

Under the ice, I looked peaceful and calm, and I did not belong to the magical and lively world there, but instead, to the calm, quiet, snow white world in the clearing above.

I remember why I’m here.

I remember why I’ll always be here.