Small Pond, Big Dreams

The snow crunched beneath my feet as I started my walk, and I relished the sound, finding satisfaction with every step. A part of me thought that I should feel sad, marring the perfect blanket of snow on the field with my steps, but I only felt the joy I always felt ever since I first played in snow as a child. But there were no snowmen today, no shrieks of laughter. I reminded myself of my task, briefly slipping my glove off to grip the piece of paper in my pocket before bundling up my quickly numbing fingers again.

Being older now, I had become fond of the quiet that comes with a snowfall, the hush that falls over everything. The world was so cold, the day was still overcast. Smoke from the fireplaces of our neighbors rose into the sky, adding to the gray of the day. To some, it may have seemed gloomy, but I found it peaceful. And besides, I had happy news today and the weather could not change that.

My destination came into view just as our house was fading from view behind me. Only from my many years of living here did I know the pond was present. It had already frozen over by the time the snowfall had started the night before, and now it blended into the surrounding field. A stranger to the land could likely walk over it and not know what their feet had just touched.

I had an amazing childhood here, with so much space to run and play in, to explore. And central to it all was this little pond. In the summers, we would use it for swimming. My friends would come and play and when the heat overcame us, we would run straight into the water, clothes and all. When we got older, we would just lay by the water and soak in the sun, hoping our parents didn’t come looking for us at either age. But I secretly loved the winters best. In the winters, when the ice would get solid enough, my dad would teach me how to skate.

The first time I had stepped out onto that ice, I would have immediately fallen over if it had not been for my father there to catch me. His patience with me was never ending, and just as he was there to catch me when I fell, he was also there to let go, even when I was not yet sure that I could do it without him. Soon, we would race across the pond together, and one day I actually started beating him. Once I was solid on my skates, we would practice passing a puck back and forth using some of his old hockey gear. Those were some of the best days of my life. And then, all too soon, he was gone.

The day he left on that run to the grocery store, I did not even get off my bed to go say goodbye. I just shouted from my room that I would see him later. I do not remember if I told him I loved him. He had swerved to avoid hitting a child that had run out into the road and hit a patch of ice. He never regained control of the car. For a long time, I did not skate again. I was resentful of that patch of ice, and could not stand the idea of experiencing joy on the ice again. And I could not forgive myself for not getting up to say goodbye that day.

We scattered his ashes near the pond. Eventually, after what seemed like forever, I started to forgive myself and to go to the pond again, to skate and to talk to my dad. Today, I had something important to tell him. I did not have my skates with me. I simply stood near the edge of the ice, and brought that piece of paper out of my pocket.

“Hi Dad. I hope you’re doing ok, wherever you are. I’ve got some big news today, and I wish more than ever that you could be here with me to celebrate.” I took a breath, suddenly choking up. “I got a letter from Cornell, Dad. I’m in, early acceptance, with a full ride hockey scholarship!” My tears came easily then. Tears of sadness, missing my dad. Tears of joy at my accomplishment. Tears of thanks for him having been there to teach me, to give me a love of the ice.

“Thank you, Dad. For everything. I love you.”