The Ice is Singing

by Jane Rogers

  Because I don’t want to die.

  And (be clear. Be honest, Marion, be steady) these are not reasons for returning:

  I am not returning with joy or hope in my heart, thinking it will all be different. I am not thinking the twins will let me sleep, or think, or live. I am not returning thinking Ruth and Vi will come home. I am not thinking of Gareth. I am not returning under any illusion that anyone will be pleased about what I’ve done. I am returning apologetic for the upsets I have caused by my sudden, irresponsible absence.

  I am not returning home because it will be spring and my heart and sorrows have melted with the snows. The poor battered land shows no signs of spring, encourages no such thought. The forecasts speak of more snow before March is out. Spring will come, but two seasons later, so will another winter, just as cold. The earth won’t stop turning for me.

  I am returning because I am not a story. There is no controlled shape – beyond the circle my journey away and back will describe. That is a freedom. My life goes on, shapelessly, raggedly, from day to day. I don’t know what will happen. But my life goes on.