I haven't been able to write anything of meaning in a while, but if I did, I'd like to write about you. I always like to write about you, Constance. With your beaming brown waves and your ocean blue eyes,you can't pass a mindful writer's brooding without inspiring a few words.
The first time I wrote of you, you were running up a green hill, and I, as always, was trying to catch up with you, running behind as fast as my legs could push me. But today, you are here with me. We are lying on thin ice, literally. We are lying down on this frozen river beside the highway, and you are holding my hand. The wind is playing with your hair tonight, a strand of brown wave across your soft, pink cheeks. You're looking up at the night sky, and I'm looking at you.
I always look to you.
I know very well that our icy scaffold may break any time. But you know what? I know I'll be alright, like you will be. After all, you're the one who taught me how to swim.
