Evaporation

The snow thawed over night. It disappeared into the ground, into the air, and left nothing but bent grass and the drooping heads of snowdrops. Our yard was a mess. It seemed as though some strange tide had ebbed in the night, filling it with flotsam—Jessie’s stroller, her sled, a mitten she had dropped, bones the dog had carefully buried in the snow. Suddenly abandoned, transfixed and left behind. They stood out sharply while all around time spun past.

The lake was raging, its surface finally broken after three months of inertia. Immense brown and gray slabs of ice ground against the breakwater in front of the house. Usually in the spring the ice would break up into hard, hollow slivers that sang, but that year the breakup was thick and pulpy. The sound was an underground howl.

Read the rest of this short story here:

Evaporation

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