Thin Ice

If only you’d waited to die in spring, soft moss releasing new spores, hyacinth bursting to bloom and scent the air, bears stretching in their cozy lairs, ready to snuffle and forage, and not in winter, the coldest day of the month, the year, on record, the nurse ringing, urging, “Now,” night wind’s bluster biting my face as I raced to the car, sped to see you one last time. If only there’d been no slant of sleet and snow slamming the windshield, the wipers bowed and screeching. If only I’d waited till morning to put chains on the tires and not skidded. If only I’d not been crying, steering blindly in the shroud of darkness. If only I’d filled a flask to help me unfeel the force and weight of the water, the cold crush of lake’s indifference, my last words to you so hurried, so harsh. If only.