The Crossing

She lies back for a time,
sinking into me.
I play with her hair,
and sing to her,
then lift her again.
We must be so close.

We were crossing the ice together
when the wind picked up and
the temperature dropped.
I wasn’t too worried,
I knew the direction to head in,
we balance each other,
she and I.

Tufts of powdered frost
billowed up from the lake’s frozen face,
under our coats,
sticking to our bellies.
We gasped and smiled at each other.
I am so glad to make this crossing with her.

Then her steps began to falter.
"I'm just tired," she said as we pressed our faces together,
the frozen wind chattering at us.
"We will make it."

But doubt darted across her eyes.
Every third step she took
became my step.
I carried more of the weight of her,
feeling gravity blossoming in her chest
like scoops of lead shot
being lifted and dropped
with great effort.

Her toes are now just grazing the ice,
she is no longer walking,
her steps have been taken away.
Now I am her steps.
We must be so close.
I sing to her.

I reach the shore
she on my back,
arms wrapped around my neck.
I am alone.
She shuddered some time ago,
I told myself she was just dreaming,
finally asleep.

It was never really a crossing,
there was no beginning.
It was always just an ending,
from the first step.

I rest with her body
sinking into me,
studying the path we took across the ice,
carving it into the stone of my mind.

This was our greatest walk together,
her face pressed into mine
as the wind chattered at us.

Now, because of her,
each step I take
is made of gratitude.