It’s like a giant slow-moving glacier (not that glaciers are ever particularly fast) and by the time it gets to you it’s already ten thousand years old and you’ve been dead for centuries, and it grinds its glassy flat bottom over your grave and the graves of so many others on its way to the home of all ice, the bottom of the world, or the one place where the Earth’s gravitational force is weakest, I’m not an expert on ice, and I’m not an expert on graves either.  

All I know is that the gravitational field does fluctuate over miles or over centimeters.  The Earth is not completely round nor is it flat, it’s sort of in between.  A flattened circle, like God was rolling a Play-Doh ball around in His hands and then pressed it to the ground.  Earth’s got scrapes and little dents on its ancient hide.  So does ice, which forms out of the sea, dark blue or dark brown depending on its mood and the time of day, and then giant chunks bigger than some countries split off and fall back into the freezing water with a sound that gets picked up by some microphone a thousand miles away, a sound that’s louder than the sounds made by any whales.  Ice grinding to a halt on the continental shelf.

Anyway, I was trying to think of the one emotion that ice is most like and I came up with love, the kind of love that gets pushed to the back as you shuffle around with bills and summer camps and pieces of nearly expired meat, and by the time you remember it it’s long gone, it packed its bags and left in a bright blue airport shuttle early one morning before you even woke up, and that’s when you sit on the kitchen floor still in your pajamas and something deep in your heart grinds to a halt. It makes that terrible loud deep echoing noise like ice calving in Antarctica and it will slide all muddy and scraped over your bones until the day you die.  That is what becomes of love that has been forgotten.