The Winter You Turned Away Without Looking Back

The winter you turned away without looking back I stood at the edge of the frozen river and watched your reflection break apart in the ice before I understood that I would never see it whole again.

Snow had fallen all night and the world held its breath beneath it. The river moved slowly under a skin of pale gray ice that whispered and cracked with quiet sounds like bones settling. My breath clouded the air. You stood on the opposite bank already wrapped in your coat with your bag at your feet. The distance between us was not far yet it felt carefully measured. When you lifted your hand it was not a wave but an acknowledgment as if waving belonged to a different life. I raised mine and then let it fall. The cold burned my fingers long after you turned.

We had grown up in neighboring villages where the hills rolled gently and the fields knew our names. In summer the air smelled of cut grain and in winter of smoke and wool. Everyone understood where they belonged and who they would become. I worked with my father repairing boats that came downriver. You studied letters and numbers and spoke of cities that rose straight upward and never seemed to sleep. I listened and pretended I could imagine them.

We met often by the river path where willows bent low and the ground stayed damp even in heat. You liked to walk there when you needed to think. I liked to walk there because you did. We spoke easily then. You teased me for my quiet. I teased you for your restlessness. When silence came it felt like rest. Once you slipped on the mud and grabbed my arm. We laughed too loudly. You did not let go right away.

As autumn came you grew distant without meaning to. Your thoughts were always elsewhere and I learned to wait for them to return. One evening the wind carried the smell of snow and you told me about an offer to study farther north. You spoke carefully as if the words themselves might break. I congratulated you. I did not ask what it would cost. The river ran dark beside us. Leaves spun in its current and disappeared.

Winter arrived early that year. Ice edged the water. The path hardened. We met less often but when we did the cold sharpened everything. Your eyes were bright. Your hands were red and ungloved. I wanted to warm them with mine and did not. The restraint became a habit that felt like virtue. At night I lay awake listening to the wind move through the eaves and imagined you packing your books.

The morning you left was white and soundless. Snow covered the path and the river alike. I walked to the bank and found you already there. We stood apart. You said my name once. I said yours once. There was nothing else that could be said without changing the truth of what we were. When you turned away I watched your steps until the trees took you.

Life afterward moved in expected lines. I married. I worked. Children were born and grew. Loss came and went. The river thawed each spring and froze each winter and I learned to mark time by it. Sometimes I thought I heard your voice in the market or along the road and the sound would fade before I could place it.

Years later a letter arrived bearing a familiar hand. You were passing through. You wondered if I might meet you by the river. I folded the letter and unfolded it again. The paper felt thin. I went.

You stood where the path widened. Your hair had grayed. Your posture was more careful. When you spoke my name it sounded worn smooth by use. We walked slowly. The river was high with meltwater and moved fast and loud. We spoke of families and work. We did not speak of the winter that still lived between us.

At last you stopped and faced the water. You said that leaving had cost more than you expected. That some choices do not end when they are made. I listened. The truth of it did not surprise me. I said that staying has its costs too. We stood there until the light shifted and the cold reached our bones.

When we parted there was no turning back this time either. But I did not watch you go. I watched the river instead and felt the ache settle into something like peace. I walked home and lit the stove. Outside snow began to fall again soft and steady and I let it cover the path behind me.