Ice Angel

This piece is about growth and change using ice as a metaphor.

I used to wonder whether ice enjoyed being stepped on. As we walked across it, thin veins rippled beneath its skin. Dirt carved small cavities into it, leaving indents and uneven crevices. I used to wonder, too, if ice liked the moment of breaking—being crushed back into a semi-liquid form, drawn closer to its younger, simpler state: water.

Maybe I have too much hope. Maybe ice prefers the act of freezing, the satisfaction of silencing the earth’s voice and forcing the ground to be still. My lungs burned as the wind picked up, fighting the cold air.

Do lungs ever get tired of letting oxygen in? Because when you let something in, you can’t help but admit other things too, things that sting, things that bruise. I wondered if lungs grow weary of sorting through all the smog just to find something good, even at the risk of losing their pinkness.

I decided to fall back into the earth. I wasn’t wearing snow pants, but I didn’t care about the cold. I swept my arms through the icy surface, trying to make a snow angel, but the ice was too rigid to move. It wouldn’t shift or change unless it cracked. And I realized I’m like that.

I only seem to grow after I’ve shattered. I always learn the hard way. Why can’t I change without breaking first?

Why can’t I learn the easy way, just once?

But success has never been a first-time accomplishment, and neither has growth. I am always brought back.

About the Writer: Bella Melardi is a poet and author. She writes about the political and personal. She attends OCADU.