Skating will be good, the wind s angry it s coming from Germany. The ice is littered with leaves, twigs, my skates send thunder through my legs, I can barely breathe. He straightens his huge back, opens his arms even wider, his skates clatter, pelt my face with ice, we re picking up speed, the creek sounds like a hundred drums, my eyes freeze, I can no longer see, but I m no city filly, no city filly. When we reach the opposite bank, our faces are blue, knees so stiff we can t straighten our legs. I'm thirsty, he gives me his licorice stick to chew, rubs his palms, blows into them, and puts them to my cheeks.
Winter blows low oboe notes through the reeds.
A few yards away, northern shovelers quack and ruffle their feathers, sending rust and cobalt flashes over the ice. We untie our skates, turn our backs to the creek, and walk through the potato polders toward the village of Kieldrecht. My wooden shoes slip on frozen loam, I trip, he holds me by the wrist. The winds won t stop, they churn clouds, send them crashing into the steel blade of the horizon. He pushes open the heavy oak door.