Begin with ice. Within a car door. The fogging windows. Your mother in a parking

garage vestibule, her quarter-zip tugged up to her chin. Your father running up and down hotel stairs.

It’s November, and it’s Manatoba, Canada so everything is frozen. Talk about the

trees. How they are covered with fresh ice in the morning sun. Trees so glossy, they

could have been made of glass. Even evergreens drop their time-tested needles on the

new winter snow. Only the flowering quince tangles with life, their red eyes covering

every angle from along the road side.

Ice. Feels restrictive. Like chains. Like the diamonds that bind our car doors

together. Did we lose jewelry, you ask? The car is very effective in sub-zero

temperatures, the dealer said. You know the dealers, how they promise the world and

more with a tongue slicker than a snake charmer’s. Their hair slicked down, in posh-

suits paid for with the money of others drawn in.

We’re never gonna be there, your father says. Which means where is the mechanic?

He’s in a van, driving around fixing others’ car troubles. He’ll come by soon, his van

coated in new little crystals. Your brother is sitting on a cold, white bench, playing a

gameboy, trying to beat his high score. Hair as red as a summer morning’s sky, your

grandmother would always say, as we helped put down mulch in the front yard. You

stopped by her house after many games. The house smelled like an Italian restaurant.

A wet dog. You used her hallways as a rink. Hockey sticks and rubber balls. When you

got home, she was at the kitchen table, lights turned up, drinking apple juice.

Don’t forget the ice. How your mom tried to use a credit card to scrape it off, but no

one dared to say otherwise. Your father gets up, the van pulling in. It’s the afternoon

now, the only sounds are the commuters. Help us, please help.

Colder than the ice we skated on, that afternoon. Other players load a coach bus.

All the ice knocked off the car, and doors pried open while everyone watched. Your

mother gets in and turns it over. It is soothing, the warming of the car from those gray,

seemingly lifeless vents. Almost as soothing as that car ride over to the arena was.

There-in late November, light shining over ice. And the mechanic turning left at the

corner.