Days after my mom finishes radiation, she’s in Vegas
on a Harley. It’s 80 degrees, and she sends selfies
with cocktails in the sun. Here, everything is beginning
to thaw: the body of ice thunders and pings and cracks
in its undoing. When I was young, I believed the lake
froze through completely, along with the creatures
inside: glass-eyed fish, bug-eyed frogs, painted turtles
with wrinkled legs and necks stuck outstretched.
But then the lake was pocked with shanties, and men
in orange hats and snowsuits hoisted Northern Pike
up through icy holes—their shiny bodies struggling
as they were pulled by their lips into sky. The idea
of heaven is ridiculous and comforting
and full of misdirection. In that same winter
of my childhood, my grandpa landed his plane
on the lake. A few days later, his friend learned
he had brain cancer and shot himself. The funeral home
was covered in yellow lilies, white roses, but his wife
was not relieved. In the basement of the church,
we ate ham and potato casserole and prayed
holding hands. All year long, we filled our freezer
with fish, sun warming us at the kitchen sink
as my mother slipped her knife into their bodies—
peeling away their skin, slicing their flesh into pieces.