“ aw”, Lila Bacas ‘22

is grief is cold. It’s not the burning pain I’ve felt before. e gray sky, the piles and piles of white crystals, the tree branches stuck together and weighed down with icicles–they match the frozen lump in my stomach. And it was all so sudden. I feel like this inn-room is smothering me. e radiators are too I feel like this inn-room is smothering me. e radiators are too loud. e rug under my bed is fuzzy with the hair of a strange dog. Something itches that didn’t used to itch. Every single stimulus is an assault. Every little sound is her greeting that will never come. I try to pull the covers around me and what should be soft sheets pilled with age and a loose sleep shirt are suddenly razors to my skin, unbearably heavy and now painful, like touching ice with bare hands, and I ask myself why, why does it have to hurt, why can’t it just stick itself in my skin and go deep enough that it doesn’t hit a nerve and doesn’t stick out, deep enough that I don’t have to see it and remember that it should hurt— “ e woman downstairs made you some tea.” My friend is kinder than anyone else I know but there are some My friend is kinder than anyone else I know but there are some times any human voice, even the gentlest and most well-intentimes any human voice, even the gentlest and most well-intentioned, is a jackhammer in my head. I hear a cup and tray tinkle on the table by the bed. “ anks,” I tell them. e word falls out listlessly, muffled by the covers. “You’d get better rest if you weren’t smothering yourself with “You’d get better rest if you weren’t smothering yourself with blankets,” they tease. ey tap quickly where my sts are bunched up near my face, guessing at where it might be. It’s a bold gesture for them. Like something she would do–would have done. I get a brief chill. A few seconds pass in cold silence. “You’ve been sleeping all day. Come downstairs. We’ll go on a walk–or something.” As they nish talking, their voice stops sounding like forced enAs they nish talking, their voice stops sounding like forced encouragement. Soft, restrained footsteps and the shadow of their invitation follow them out of the room.

___________________________________________________ When I nally wake, the crescent moon is high enough that it When I nally wake, the crescent moon is high enough that it casts a nger of light through the one large window. It opens up onto the sky–placed just right in the sloping ceiling so that the view from where I lay gives the impression of being adrift in the cosmos. No trees, no cabins, no snow. Just a sliver of light, a few stars, and a frame of thick, dark gray clouds. My feet take me out of bed and downstairs. I’m reluctant to get My feet take me out of bed and downstairs. I’m reluctant to get up; though the inn is heated well, my bed warmed by my body heat makes the air feel cold in comparison. e wooden stairs creak. As I descend I step into what seems like a cloud of re-warmth. ey’re still awake. Crouched by the wood furnace. Wearing a ey’re still awake. Crouched by the wood furnace. Wearing a loose nightgown. Drinking something–maybe tea. I watch them chew their ngernails for a minute before I speak. ey don’t turn around to face me. I ll the tense quiet by stoking the re. eir voice lowers like they’re saying something that shouldn’t be heard. “I want to talk about her. Please let me. I feel like everyone is trying so hard not to.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Okay. Go ahead.” Staring at the ickering light on the oor, I allow myself to space out. “We were talking about how we grew up. I don’t know how we “We were talking about how we grew up. I don’t know how we got there–I don’t remember if we were digging up the past for comfort or talking about how thankful we are that it’s the past. But either way, I grew up in the snow, and the way I described it to her was pretty bleak.” “We grew up in the snow,” I correct them. “Right. Well, I hated the storms every year. I hated being cooped “Right. Well, I hated the storms every year. I hated being cooped up inside. But when I told her about our childhood winters, she got excited.” “Excited?” “Yeah, I mean–we were sitting down and she grabbed my shoul“Yeah, I mean–we were sitting down and she grabbed my shoulder,” they pause to sniff, “like I’d said something remarkable. And then she talked about how if she could, she would pull the icicles off the trees, dip them in sugar, and eat them.” ey laugh tearfully. e story feels shallow, but it gets to me. “We never even wanted e story feels shallow, but it gets to me. “We never even wanted to leave our houses. If we did, our parents would dress us in the whole closet.” “I told her that–something like that. And she said she didn’t care.” ey start chewing their ngernails again. “She wanted to go out and make snow sculptures too. Not just snowmen. She wanted to make a whole little village out of snow.” “If we ever end up in the north together,” she said, holding their “If we ever end up in the north together,” she said, holding their shoulder, “you’ll build them with me. Won’t you?” “I don’t think I can refuse,” they lilted. “You can’t. I’ll bury you up to your neck in snow–and leave holes for your arms.” She grinned. “As if I’d let you. You, of all people, should know that I’m way stronger than you.” “Not when you’re buried. You’ll see.” “Not when you’re buried. You’ll see.” “I think your logic has some aws,” they laughed. eir two voices rose to childlike, brisk giggles. “If you’re so strong, just shut up and build me a snowman.” I can’t help but feel like we’re wasting a gift. It’s funny–I hate I can’t help but feel like we’re wasting a gift. It’s funny–I hate snow, and I’ve felt nothing but dead surrounded by it for the past two days. But as we talk our conversation trails off with her trailing always behind and I start to feel my core thaw. Like an ice cube, it started with one snap.