Memories

It is the early 60s and my older brother and I are out on the ice of Lake Huron. Our mother is inside with her two younger children. We are the only family on the summer lane since my Air Force father loves taking us off military housing.

During this frigid winter, my brother and I are walking along the lake, marveling at the tiny huts of frozen ice. He moves closer to where the tops of the high waves are now solid. I follow him, leaving my ice skates and I catch up to him just as he nears the crest. He is staring down, leaning over, too far, I think. I look down to see the waves rushing up to the ice. I still feel the cold air and the vibrant water's slap against the frozen structure.

My brother slips for a second, and he looks at me as it appears he might fall over the edge. But just as soon, his belt buckle catches, digging into the ice, and he can pull back to safety. We silently move off the wave, towards home.Years later, we tell our mother who grows pale with the story, her hands to her face.

Two years ago, on a plane to Texas for her 80th birthday, I watch a batch of cumulus clouds from the airplane's window. They look like the frozen waves of Lake Huron. I see a thin flicker of one wisp who could be a person sitting atop the clouds. It could be my brother. He is sitting there, but this time, he is waving me on. "Go! Go! Go!" he shouts like someone urging a runner to go faster, faster, and to win the race.

I want to help my brother down, but he is telling me to go on. I want to pull him from the edge of what I know is headed his way. I want to rescue him, but I can only sigh and ice skate away.