Lakes, they lack life. But, when they flow,

they remind me of the gentle breeze that hits

when the autumn winds finally settle.

Yet, as the water solidifies for winter, the animals

are still alive, like toppings on a pizza dough, 

they stay on the ice, above the water.

The weather has gotten better. Dad’s car is 

having little to no trouble backing out of the driveway

now. Mom commutes to the supermarket at her

discretion, and I sit by the corner of the living room,

sticking together my final few Lego pieces for a set

that my parents had gotten me for Christmas.

Outside, the wind tears a gaping howl, as snowflakes

riddle the front lawn with white specks. Passersby leave 

their broadly stamped imprints on the sidewalk as we

speak. The weather is surely post-Christmas–like.

Summer, the community hosts a pool for us. There, I

learned my first few tricks of swimming. Lest I embarrass 

myself during my first visit at the beach, there I was 

on my bed, practicing my freestyle, the backstroke,

then breaststroke . . .

Nine summers later, there I was, working as hard as I possibly

could to prepare for the upcoming soccer season, water in my hand,

Indispensable to the copious amount of sweat that was exiting before me.

As I downed the water, I choked on its mere presence. I was tired, 

breathing as I drank, and there I sat, starting blankly at the grass of 

my backyard, wondering if I could really land an impact on the season in a month.

Water, spilling into all destinations of my life, rummaging through every 

part of my body, the memories in my brain, the tiredness of my fibers.