Knowing Forever
Flash-fiction - by Sarah Grace Tuttle
They wed where her ice began, on the mountain she could never leave. He held her close and swore, “I will love you until the glaciers run dry.”
She smiled, knowing he meant forever.
Their families clapped and stomped so thunderously they pushed an avalanche down the ridge. Sun turned the mist of ice flakes golden, and they kissed with it shining all around.
A few millennia later, the glaciers started to melt. This wasn’t the expected seasonal warming, heating the air just enough to wash life downstream. This melting came from a deeper place. It carried bits of her away, drop by drop. She forgot where she’d put her snow tatting needles. A neighboring mountain’s name. How to make her favorite shade of blue ice. And still, the glacier dripped.
He held her close, as she trickled away.
The drops had become a river. Even in winter, the glacier ran. Milky blue waters gushed out, and there was no damming them. No stopping the exodus of her mind.
When she asked, he reminded her of the time they met. The favorite games of their children, now leagues away with glaciers of their own. Her name.
On afternoon strolls, their feet splashed in puddles pooling on the ice. He learned to help her watch for weak spots. She learned her favorite ice cave was gone. She learned it again, and again, and again, and each time her tears were new.
She always knew she liked pancakes. So, he always made them.
Their mountain of ice and snow had been drained dry. Now it was just grass and brittle bushes, bent low by the wind. She dug between rocks, looking for cool water. She wept in frustration, and her frozen tears melted in moments.
He pointed out that there were still some reindeer. Still some rabbits.
He made her pancakes.
She blew ice shards at him, and they vaporized in the desert heat. No harm was done, he told her. Her ice couldn’t hurt him. She screamed, and wished her ice were iron. She wanted to go home. She wanted cold fjords and running salmon, not this achingly dry air and vast expanse of dead dust.
That night, she remembered none of it. He made her pancakes. She reminded him that they were due to be wed tomorrow. Did he think her mother would approve of their centerpieces? He held her hand. Touched her wedding band, worn thin over eons.
“She will love them,” he assured her. “Just as I love you.”
“Until the glaciers run dry?” she asked with a smile.
“Until long past then.”