It was the third day of the search when they stopped looking for us. Gail and I are wedged together chest to chest, underneath a wall of stone and caved-in ice. The force of our fall was stopped by jagged pieces of ice catching on our clothes and gear, pinning us tight to each other, unable to maneuver in any direction to release us from the crevice. We yell awhile at first, then take turns struggling or talking each other down from panic attacks that seem to come in waves. As hours creep by, it is clear that nobody is coming. Our sniffles echo off the dark as the cold circles its fingers around our limbs. I thought we were already frozen together, already gone. She cried for hours before letting her urine go. Then she apologized for at least another half hour. The warmth was welcome at first, but now we are fused together by yellow ice. If we could break apart, it would surely rip fabric and flesh alike. 

I didn’t want it to get worse. She has been a purple blue for some time now. I close my eyes and think about happy times. I try to visualize the warm sun on my skin. I try to translate that burning sensation to one of heat instead of cold. Visions of a cobalt sky after rain and the teal Bahamian waters gives me a moment of rest inside my thoughts. I can even see the brown flecks of coral beneath the waters.

She whimpers now and then, most likely the hallucinations have fully taken her away now. Sleep well, my beautiful queen. I will miss you and your sense of humor. Her blond hair that stuck out beyond her beanie hat broke off in ragged chunks where her sweat had frozen. When her mind started to go, her struggling broke the pieces of hair clean off in vertical chunks, still frozen upright to the shoulder of my jacket with the adhesive of her sweat and tears.

She hasn’t whimpered for awhile now. I push inside my mind. If I pay too close attention to the physical, I would panic, and that wouldn’t be good for either of us. Somewhere between dreams and dying, I imagine the sound of an electric guitar with just enough distortion wafting through the caves. I believe the sound’s originator calmly picks the notes wherever he is waiting…one-two, one-two-three-four…one-two, one-two-three-four…

But, who knows which pathway would lead me to the player if I could move? I relax into the sound of picked ringing strings, coming in succinct waves with its limp wrist like that Deftones song. I think of the line, “There’s still blood in your hair,” and think back to what happened to us and that bleeding would have been easier. 

It was inevitable that we would be abandoned. The storm had come upon us like a bullet train. If there were animals or trees in this desolate place, they would have been flattened by the force of the winds. Instead, I saw the ghosts of flurries coming in funnel-shaped waves across the flat lands where the snow never fully melts all year. Way up there. We had to go. Way up here. And then we fell. And now we stay, down here, nestled together, forever.

Van Cortlandt Bronx, NY, froze over, December 2019

Happy Halloween, All! It’s been a weird year. I’ve been under a rock, restructuring. Hope to rejoin the real world with some updates soon…