When the Ice Is Melting Away

Amidst much anxiety and uncertainty, a then awful familiarity, a quote from my high school days came to awareness. Softly, like how the blues and peach come upon the clouds of dawn, I heard my mind: "Most men lead lives of quiet desperation." I found Walden.

When I was five years old, I had an imaginary friend. His name was pronouns or salutations, like "hey" and "oh yeah," and our conversations danced around these competitive games we'd create. "Oh yeah, well I bet 40 tickets I can hold my breath for 40 seconds!" I'd wager. "You're on," he'd respond with confidence. The tickets were maroon with tattered edges like the ones from those tight, gigantic rolls at the county fair. I was always ahead by hundreds, yet my friend never got discouraged and perked at any opportune wager that crossed our paths. He was, indeed, imaginary. I never saw his figure or color or face. I only saw the red tickets, the rolls they made, and how they floated in thin air as stowage. And I heard his voice.

Thoreau helped me escape to sustained moments of peace. He told me about the itemization and cost of garden supplies and, somehow, I wasn't bored. He pondered the irony of man becoming the tool of the tools he created, and I understood. He understood.

The ice, like a cage atop the flow of life, began to melt back from the shores.