She placed a foot over the water.
Could the ancients scream from beneath it? Does the world turn like the last exhalation of breath, trickling to the surface, curling in on itself? Ice would be coming, she knew it would; but it would not touch the ocean and would not seal it over; would not tuck its edges like a final, funerary repentance into the earth. So forgotten are these waves that when she feels it with her foot, it does not feel like water but like glass, as if she were walking on windows, miles of them – dancing over glass as if she were walking across every wall.
There is a light fog in the air. It fills her with woe, sings with voices unimaginably calm. Sailors know it, that endless song of damp – the gentle rising and lilting, the kiss of it falling over trembling arms, that Pacific chill – and the intangible, hovering white that makes itself thin in the presence of sunlight.
She does not fall through, and her steps hover onward.
Have even the laws of physics forgotten her?
The sky threatens to drop her snowflakes but they are suspended by bits of string. They hold themselves there, like coral in the watery deep, refusing to fall just yet, only lowering themselves just enough to hang waist level with her, twirling in perfect suspension but not falling. Snowflakes – held by string? She might wonder, and there is no one there to tell her otherwise. Of course. How else do they hang in the sky?
Another step onward, and the ocean shows no sign of yielding. A glance to her feet would reveal cold, clouded cobalt, a shade riven with dull slices of green, maquillage of the eternally deep. Caresses – but are they written across her flesh? Or do they hover, like the snowflakes do, on endless, unbreakable pieces of twine? A wind blows, and the snowflakes spin.
And when he runs to the water's edge to utter her name, there is a distant echo rolling onward;
"Do not whisper, your memories are too heavy…"
Mist trembles, the sky releases its snow; in the distance, there is the sound of water parting, droplets leaping upward to catch the falling season- "To forget everything is to escape the impossible."