Our Ice Palace When my brother and I were still the adventurous type, before age siphoned that childlike feeling of invincibility from us, we would venture into the forest at night. We trekked for hours in the dirt, our clean white shoes steadily darkening, as our small feet kicked up the dust and uprooted the occasional, unsuspecting worm. Any leaves that survived autumn desperately hugged outstretched branches. The beginning of the winter frost drained their remaining color and life. A quiet and monotonous drip-drop was audible as water had frozen on the crisp arms of the tree, forming sharp, dagger-like icicles. Looking through those limbs, we could see the occasional star dotting the sky and marveled at the insignificant size of the forest--or, in our eyes, an impenetrable ice palace. I was the queen and he the king of this domain, ruling over the black, sometimes fuzzy, miniscule creatures that were our subjects. At least, that is how the bush in our back garden appeared in our minds.
Tova Solomons
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