Final Prayers

Every step is strategically placed as she makes her way across the ice. The pond’s been frozen solid for well over a month. Glancing up at shadowed skies, she sees delicate snowflakes beginning to fall. Despite wearing heavy layers and boots against the cold, she’s freezing. Will spring never arrive?

Grandma Agatha’s house looms in the distance, just before the copse of trees, the roof and branches heavily laden with snow. Today Greta’s basket is filled with loaves of bread, red apples, cheese, and carrots. She makes the same treacherous trip each week. She can’t risk the old woman starving.

Reaching the center of the pond, a resounding noise breaks the silence. Panicked, adrenalin pumping through her veins, she runs, slipping and falling less than ten feet away. Spread eagle, she watches an apple roll across the ice, its redness much like blood bouncing off the snowfall, contrasting sharply with the white of the ice.

The crack expands and cold water hits like a ton of bricks. Gasping, she bobs up and down, struggling for a brief moment before realizing all efforts are in vain. No one hears her save the startled birds, their wings flapping against frigid air. The sound fills her ears.

A calming numbness floods, encompassing reality. Hands, fingers already frozen, slide easily across the slick ice. The irony of it strikes hard and swift. Confusion intensifies. Has spring arrived? Warmth infuses, peace abounds as a single leaf, like her final, selfless prayer, falls on the ice.

“Please don’t let Agatha starve.”