When Things Give

I went back to the lake

for the first time since he got sick,

and the ice is breaking.

That sound—

first sharp, like a gunshot,

then groaning,

like something

giving up

all at once,

like the whole surface

has decided

it can't hold anymore,

can't pretend to be solid,

can't keep

carrying what we've asked it to carry.

I stand there for twenty minutes.

No one else.

Just me and the ice

finding its breaking point.

The black line appears slowly,

grows like a vein

opening from the inside,

like something

was always going to split,

was always going to fail,

was always waiting

for the temperature

to change.

March and everything is breaking.

The trees don't know what to do.

The ground is still frozen

but the surface is giving way.

My father is still breathing

but something in him

has already left.

I watch the line grow.

I listen to the groan.

I think about all the times

I drove past this lake

without stopping,

without hearing it,

without understanding

that everything soft

is breaking

underneath everything hard.

The ice is melting.

The season is turning.

I'm standing here

like my witnessing

means something,

like if I just stay long enough,

I'll understand

how to let something go

the way the ice does,

how to break

without apology,

how to become

water

again.