Melting

The air is thinner up here. The wind tastes of pine and metal. It's cold, piercing, and burns a path down my lungs. But it's the icicle lodged in my throat that is making it hard to breathe. It reminds me of its weight with every inhale, and threatens to shatter with every exhale. I have long since accepted its occupation of my vocal cords. It gives me fairly few reasons to complain (apart from the lack of oxygen) and always delivers its rent on time. My boots sink slightly into the half-frozen earth every few steps, breaking the silence with the occasional crunch. This one is different, louder. I trip on an overhanging root. The wind pauses, as if out of politeness. My tenant scoffs. 

The ground is frosty but not unkind, and soft in the places where the snow has started to give way. A drop of dew slides off a pine needle and lands on my wrist. It is warm against my palm, and the moisture slips through the holes of my old gloves. My tenant quiets for a moment. I stay seated, watching as the world is bathed in the soft gold glow of morning light. It spills down the slopes, shy yet deliberate, tracing every grove and furrow in its path. I can feel the ice loosen.

I push myself back up, clutching onto the trunk of a nearby tree for support. The air feels inexplicably warmer, and I feel safe and comforted despite standing on the edge of a cliff. I shudder through a breath; the fresh air, no longer battling with the ice, is a shock to my system. 

The ice in my throat begins to melt, bit by bit. My tenant is preparing for its departure. 

The air is thinner up here, but the silence is glorious.