The Slippery Meaning of Ice

By Tim McNamara '98

It’s February, and I’m sneaking a pair of skates and a Sherwood into the trunk of my dad’s car. Snow flurries paint the driveway and frost the leafless maple trees in the front yard. I’m in between jobs, and I stare at the flakes twisting earthward, wishing this natural scene would help me gain some insight into the order of things. But this longing recedes when I blink and remember more immediate plans.

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