By Carrie Jacobson

Early this cold morning, I was driving past an inlet where a skim of ice had formed, and it occurred to me that that is what it’s like to age.

We harden, bit by bit. At first, it’s just a little skim, along the edges. The sun will come up, the day will warm, and it will all be gone, forgotten, the surface moving and alive and sparkling in the light.

Then one day, one cold, cold day, the skim grows, until one edge touches another, covering the entire inlet.

Finally, it freezes solid.

I want to make sure that I never freeze solid. I never want to be so set in my ways, so sure of myself, so absolute, that all of me is frozen, edge to edge.

I vow, then, to wake every day and turn to the sun, and to warmth, and to the knowledge that while my mortality is certain, my stasis need not be.

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