SHORT STORY
COLD
LAUREN SHARP
We can see our breath in the air now, it looks like the mist that hangs thin over the surface of the water. It’s a specific sort of calm that cloaks me on a morning like this, with a controlled breath, accepting the bitter crystal of the icy water. I’m only up to my knees so far. It will be only minutes before I emerge, skin bright and prickling. The sky is smudged peach, and the colour is a gift now that the bright greens of the summer have faded. The thin black branches of the trees either side of the river used to be covered in growth, but now they are bare I can see the birds perched on them, silhouettes against the sunrise. This is only the start, and right now it feels as though the winter will stretch on for a long time. There is a small pinch of dread in my stomach at the thought. I remind myself that I am ready for it as I lower myself into the water to my waist. This ritual will be a marker, each week the water will gradually drop, an inconsistent shaking line down to under ten, under five degrees, then it will slowly creep back up with spring. The commitment to the cold will be a reason to get out of bed, the satisfaction will see me through each day. This hopeful habit causes ebbing warmth in your bones and to the tips of your fingers, strange after being so cold.