Bella Mardi

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...