Place 9: Soon to Become One Giant Ice Cube

2 p.m. Thursday, Oct. 5

Chatham’s pond water is the clearest I’ve ever seen. I can see straight through to the bottom coated with a mixture of muddy leaves and silt. Although leaves still float on the water’s surface, many have settled, becoming waterlogged and sinking. They form a thick layer at the pond’s edge, shelf-like and seemingly strong enough to support four sleeping mallards that are really floating on the water rather than standing. When sunlight shines through the maple tree, light glistens brilliantly off still water and golden leaves, which have weakened in color during the past week. For a moment, the leaves glow richly as if they never faded. If the water froze overnight, the color might be preserved temporarily and I could enjoy them throughout the winter.

I wait for the day when the pond freezes creating one giant slab of ice. Leaves are incredibly durable and will easily survive the winter, remaining intact. When the water freezes with leaves inside, I expect it will look just like a fake ice cube a neighbor once slipped into my drink when I was thirteen. During the middle of taking a sip of water, I peered down into my glass and saw a honey bee staring up at me. Of course, I shrieked, believing that a bee landed in my drink and might sting my lip any moment. But in fact it was a fake insect trapped inside a plastic ice cube. Obviously, a pond is much larger and more irregularly shaped than an ice cube, but similar nonetheless. I picture the pond’s surface rock hard and smooth like crystal, leaves temporarily distended a few inches below the surface for decoration.

The ducks finally notice my presence. They yawn with beaks open wide and stretch their wings like a child reaching arms high overhead after a long nap. This weather seems to agree with them: 40 degrees, partly cloudy sky and a brisk breeze. Wasting no time, they swim laps around the pond, pushing their bobbing bodies through thinning leaves.

Clouds drift and sunrays disappear leaving me in shadow. I miss the sun’s warm rays and shiver. I’m glad that I wore thin gloves today and a light wool coat. Before, I envied the ducks for the pleasure they take in swimming, but now I’m glad to stay where I am standing on the grass beneath the tree, dry from head to toe.

I look up. Nearly naked now, the maple tree looks cold to me. Most leaves have fallen, but a few green clumps tinged with yellow hold tight. To see a tree half naked except for a few healthy green sections reminds me of a middle-aged balding man; little if any hair on top, thinning on the sides and thick on the bottom. And, like some men who can’t accept their increasing baldness, the thick sections grow long and “luxurious,” such as a lower branch overhanging the pond, the very tip nearly brushing the water. Ridiculous as it looks, I’m glad the tree hasn’t lost all of its leaves because it won’t be long until everything green will disappear until spring.