Between subdivisions and cornfields lies the pond. The ice comes together like tectonic plates, groaning as it shifts. Samuel Beckett’s face comes to mind, lined and furious, and I think that’s how I’d like to grow old. (Is that possible for a woman?) The frozen mud crunches under my step. I approach the edge. Put a foot on the surface to gauge its strength. It shudders and creaks. Cracks propagate out. I push harder and harder. Suddenly the ice gives, my foot falls and water splashes up my leg. The noise and cold are surprising, exhilarating. It’s not that I don’t like my nice warm socks…
I head home.
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