By Gabriela Ripper Naigeborin ’19. Art by He Ri Kwon ’16.
No one knows to what extent winter has set foot on me, not even I know, so there is no way of telling where it is safe to skate and where the ice can break. However, one thing I can tell: I feel like I am all thin ice. When you step onto me, you are careful, I have noticed. You take one step and then another one. During this “then” there’s doubt, you don’t know if you should keep on going. I forgive you. I don’t know if you should keep on going. You look down, right at me, but you just see the water frozen underneath. You ignore the fragile layer that is keeping you from what is inside. There is no me, there is only you staying dry. Still, you want to be dry with me. You don’t even know it, but that is what’s making you take this unnecessary walk. I am all thin ice, so thin I’m almost not there at all.
I am all thin ice and yet I ask you to dive into me. I promise not to freeze you to death if you grant me the tips of your fingers. Take off your gloves and I will turn your pinkness into blue and purple-stained speckles of ice that will melt into me. If you choose to stay, jump, and I will turn you into that giant block of ice and eternity that you, as a child, wished to become, so that you would never die and be able to see how things would turn out to be. I cannot promise you eternal life, but I will give you eternal care. I will embrace you when the cold drops of water come shooting from the sky in December (as I have been warned) and I will embrace you when the warm drops of water come rolling down your cheek. Please, do not leave me alone to drown in my stiffness. Do not leave me alone to myself.
Read Part 1.