It came in the night and blanketed everything.  When I got up in the morning, I could hardly move because my limbs were encased in a cold transparent sheath.  What a memorable picture I made, standing frozen to the spot, all the warmth of my blood slowly turning to slush. 

Neighbors were commenting on how lovely the ice looked in the sun, so beautiful and crystalline.  Kids were laughing and sliding on the sidewalks.   To one operating independently of its weight, it probably did look inviting.  But beneath it was another matter altogether.

I tried to pack my suitcase, but my fingers wouldn’t move.  They cracked off and fell to the floor, and were immediately swatted under the bed by one of my rambunctious cats.  I heard them clatter over the hardwood and wondered how I’d manage to zip the bag without a thumb.

It’s no use fighting to stay alert; the hypothermia is making me so sleepy that I can’t think straight.  I want to crawl into bed and pull the covers over my head, but my legs won’t respond.  Is it possible to sleep standing upright?  It must be, because until this moment, I wasn’t aware that this caliber of inertia even existed.

Someone is talking at me, but the voice is so muffled that I can’t identify any words.  It’s just as well; I hate to think that the last words I hear before I drift away forever are ones of reproachment.


One Response to “THE ICE STORM”

  1. At least one time of the year when you wish you were having hot flashes!

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