Words of Winter Water

“If a story on paper could be told with more than words, the whole world would read it.” She told me the first time we hung out and sat under the maple tree by the pond that Autumn afternoon. The grass was dead and crunched beneath our feet like the tires of my old, red Ford on her gravel driveway when I would drive her home before curfew. The leaves danced with the wind, spinning pirouettes before leaping from their branches to join in the Fall’s beautiful recital. And the water stood still, like shimmering glass on a midsummer afternoon.

I never understood what she meant, because I wasn’t a reader. I loved to observe, to see the sights around me and indulge in the beauty of life in the moment. Sucking every last drop of sweet joy out of every split second I got to spend with her before the pond froze over and she hopped on a plane back to Tennessee where her mother lived. Those days were the loneliest. I found myself checking the calendar, and marking the days she would usually arrive.

“Always meet me by the pond.” she had told me, the grin on her face could have outshone the sun himself.

I made it a habit to visit the pond every day during the time period of her absence, not necessarily on purpose, but because the very nature of that place drew me in and wrapped me up in a sort of warmth that made me feel like I belonged there… like I should stay there forever.

As November drew to an end, and the temperatures dropped, the pond would freeze from the banks inward, and the trees surrounding it would droop downward from the heavy snowfall, folding in over the ice. The sight was almost magical, and I would beg her every time to stay just a little longer, because I knew she would love it more than I ever could. But, ultimately, my daydreams would end, and I’d still be standing alone.

I woke up one night in a sick delusion. Fever clung to my body like aphids to a strawberry, ravaging my immune system. I felt like my stomach was being ripped apart.

I tore off my shirt and pants, and sweat trickled down my back as I sat up and swung my legs out of bed and took off towards the bathroom. I didn’t have time to turn on the lights as I sprinted through the house, and my dizziness had me seeing double. I bumped a glass cup off the counter and it shattered on the floor. The bile in the back of my throat continued to try to surface, and I knew I wasn’t going to make it to the bathroom, so I doubled over the sink and felt the burn of stomach acid and leftover Ahi tuna as it projected from my mouth. Hot tears fell from my eyes, and I collapsed to the floor.

The next thing I remember is my mother pressing a cold rag to my forehead and trying to force me to drink a sort of tea that had a scent similar to that of a wet dog and honey. I pushed the cup away, thanking her for her kindness.

“If he doesn’t want that, give him this.” I heard that voice. That beautiful voice. The one that brought me back to cinnamon sticks and crunchy brown leaves, her beautiful green eyes just barely peeking through her eyelids when she smiled, and her auburn hair, falling to the middle of her back in beautiful, loose curls. I looked around the room for her face, my eyes ravenous to be set upon her sunbaked freckles once again. And there she was, holding a glass of something that looked absolutely appalling and unappetizing, but my gaze was set upon her face.

It was sunken in, her cheekbones hollowed out like caves on a cliffside. Her eyes no longer had that beautiful shine I had been so in love with. Her hair was chopped to her shoulders, and she was still wearing her coat.

I immediately forgot about my ailments, as my worry for her grew quickly.

'What’s wrong?' I signed to her in a panic.

She tried to give me what she thought looked like a genuine smile, but it looked like she was in pain.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, her voice was still the same… at least her voice was still the same.

'Fine' I said, moving my hands aggressively.

“What was that?” she asked, “You moved your hands too fast, I’m still new to this.”

'I’m fine', I repeated, 'are you okay?' I asked

She smiled again, “If you’re feeling alright, I’d like to take a walk.” she said.

My heart was beating fast. She was here in the winter, she looked sick. Was she sick? She was never here in the winter.

'I’d love to.' I signed. I still felt nauseous, but I was more worried about her than I was about my own health, ' just let me put on a shirt, and some pants.' I said as I stood up, with the blanket wrapped around me, so she didn’t see me in my boxers, and I hobbled to my room. I threw on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, and pulled on my boots.

A few minutes later we were outside.

It was silent for a while, so silent I was sure she could hear my heart beating.

I tapped her shoulder to get her to look at me.

'What’s wrong?' I signed.

“Just wait until we get to the pond.” she told me.

She opened the door to the passenger side of my truck and hopped in while I fished my keys out of my pocket and walked to the other side. The truck was cold, and my heaters were broken, but I had plenty of blankets and hand warmers to spare. She slid over on the bench seat until her thighs were touching mine, and she placed her head on my shoulder as we pulled out of my driveway.

The pond was frozen, and the trees were drooping like they always had. I would have been so excited to show her, but the mood was more solemn. I went to get out of the truck, but she held me back.

“Stay in here” she said, unfolding one of the blankets and wrapping it around us both, “It’s easier to stay warm.”

I nodded, and wrapped my arms around her, and she began to quiver.

At first I thought she was shivering from the cold, but then I heard her sniffle, and a hot tear soaked into my pants. She had never been sad before. I had never seen this side of her before. All I had seen was her beautiful smile and her perfect teeth, shining through her clear, shimmery lip gloss, and the way her nose crinkled when she laughed. All I had seen was the way she ran ahead with so much curiosity and adventure feeding the beautiful fire in her soul. This sad creature was so new to me, I was unsure of what to do. I panicked and lifted her face gently with both hands and looked her in the eyes. And for the first time in my life I signed the words “I love you” to someone other than my parents.

And just like that, the glimmer in her eyes came back, but just for a split second before it vanished away again. She sat up and pulled away from me gently, letting me know she wasn’t startled by it.

“You know why I love reading so much?” she asked me, looking over at the pond.

I shrugged, 'why?' I asked, trying to push the pain of her ignoring my words aside.

“Because it was my escape.” She replied.

I frowned, 'What is there to escape from?' I asked.

“At first it was bullies,” she replied, “Then it was my parent’s divorce. And now…” she trailed off.

'Now what?' I prodded.

“Now it’s my own mother.” she said, and she began to sob again.

I shook my head, and grabbed her hand. 'What do you mean?' I asked.

“She’s been hurting me, Caleb.” She said, “Starving me for weeks at a time, refusing to allow me to leave the house. She used my favorite book’s pages to roll her blunts.”

Angry tears formed in my eyes and I wanted to scream.

'Tell me you are leaving her for good.' I signed, 'tell me you aren’t going back.'

“That’s the good news.” She said, “My dad is fighting a custody battle in court to get me away from my mother, and he’s winning, which means I’ll be able to come and stay here in Montana with you.”

I let out a breath of relief, and clutched her hand tightly, and wrapped my arm around her shoulders and pulled her into my chest.

“I love you too.” she said quietly.

I stroked her hair gently, and planted a kiss on the top of her head.

Her breathing grew slow and even as she fell asleep.

I looked out at the frozen pond, my thoughts alive with what she had first said to me, “If a story on paper could be written with more than words, the whole world would read it.” but stories on paper are simply words, sometimes accompanied with a picture to help those who can’t conjure up an image in their own minds. If someone could simply dump their emo tions and their feelings and their ideas onto paper without filtering it through language, there would be no need for imagination. The whole idea of communication is that we use our intuition and our creations in our mind to come to conclusions and find a happy ending in even the darkest of situations. That is why, the whole world doesn't read, because they are too afraid to discover something that they won’t know how to imagine an end to.

Laying there, with that sweet girl in my arms. Feeling her shake as I clutched her tight, I saw our end. I saw our beauty in the end of our life we were going to live together, even if it lasted for merely a chapter of my book. I saw deeper into her than I had ever seen before. Her smile and her bright eyes were just the surface of her entire being, and she saw right into me when I couldn’t use words to paint the picture of who I wanted to be. She was more beautiful for being what she was, than she was for being what she wrote herself to be.