Part One; Bittersweet.

          I remember walking down that dark road towards the tiny ice-fishing shack. It had been there as long as I could remember, all summer long and all autumn. It was bittersweet, remembering all the moments I drove past it, never really registering its presence. But as I walked towards it, I realized the importance of it that night. It hid our lights from illuminating the trees, from the windows of the house buried back in the woods.









          Laughing, we all tried to fit in the ice-fishing house, sitting on laps and standing in the center, hoping no one would be left out. I sat on his lap and tried to shake the cold out from my skin. Our breath mixed and collided once the door was closed; we shared the air. But soon the smoke replaced what we tried to breathe, and we all suffocated on things we were trying to forget.











            Then all the anxiety got lighter as the smoke in the shack got heavier. My brain spun webs around it self and skipped like a scratched CD.











                          [And then I lit up a cigarette.]