The Reason I Hate Winter.

It’s just after seven AM, Christmas is around the corner. The sky is dark save a star or two. The moon hides behind clouds but shows his beaming face every once in a while. I’m sat on an icy bench in the cold, white snow, staring out at a frozen lake. I’m wearing a thick coat, a scarf, thermal hat and gloves but still I shake. The cold has little to do with it. It’s coming from inside of me.

The lake, Carter Lake they call it, is a three minute stroll from my parents’ way too big log house. It was decided, not by me, that Christmas would be spent here this year. If I had my way I’d never come here again.

I hate this time of year.

I hate Christmas.

I hate the snow.

I hate the cold.

I hate winter and I hate this lake.

I flex my right hand and feel the dull throb in my wrist. It’s been there for fifteen years waiting for the first day of winter to arrive. When it does, I feel it and it brings my thoughts to here.

To this damn lake.

To fifteen years ago.

When I was young the lake, just like today, would freeze over causing great excitement in the village where we lived. All the local kids would attempt to skate without skates while the adults would place bets on what date the ice would finally thaw and crack.

I’d rarely venture onto the lake with my friends. I never admitted it but the truth is I was scared to. When my friends came calling I’d be ready with the excuse and nobody ever questioned how I ‘caught’ the flu every year.

The clouds drift above me, moving ever so slightly. The moon hides behind them again creating a dark, haunting shadow that lingers on the ice, changing shape.

It was two days after school broke up and three before Christmas day. We were running late for something that I can’t even remember now. Being eight years old I created a fuss, complaining and stomping around. When we were ready to go, I feared we were already late.

“Don’t worry,” my dad said with a smile, “It’ll be okay.”

He kissed my mother goodbye on the forehead like he always did and when we were at the bottom of the driveway he scooped me up onto his broad shoulders and walked fast, much faster than if I was on foot. I remember being happy and not caring if we made it or not.

When we got to the lake, a shortcut, I felt no panic. I was with my dad. I never feared the frozen lake when I was with him and we strode across. The times my dad lost his footing, skidding slightly, were met by my giggles of amusement and his deep chortle.

We were three quarters of the way across when the ice broke.

I was flung into the air and landed hard on the ice.  Automatically he threw me to safety. I remember the pain of how I landed and how thick the ice was. The ice was thick! So how did it break?

I saw a broken hole in the ice but not my dad. I rushed to the hole and screamed my lungs out. A dark shape floated towards me. Dad broke the surface gasping for air, he was grabbing for the edge of the hole, shaking uncontrollably. He tried to climb out but slipped down again out of sight. I thrust my arm in and grabbed at his arm and pulled. Pulled with every ounce of strength an eight year old child has trying to lift a soaking wet fourteen stone man.

My right hand was submerged in the freezing water so long that it eventually seized up and my grip was lost. He fell back into the water again and I fell backwards onto the ice. Seconds later he reappeared but only briefly. The frigid temperature was too much and hypothermia must have been kicking in by now. His lips were blue and he was making horrible sounds. Gasping and gagging, spluttering and shaking. Talking but not making sense.

Then, he looked at me. The shaking stopped through sheer strength of his will. He touched my chin with icy fingers and wiped away a tear from my cheek.

“Don’t worry,” my dad said with a smile, “It’ll be okay.”

The smile was broken by a coughing fit. He kicked to stay afloat but couldn’t. He sank down. One last time. I thrust my hand into the freezing water fishing around for him but my hand found nothing but mild frostbite. Screaming, crying, I sprinted back across the ice for home.

Within the hour all the emergency services had arrived. I remember thinking it strange that firemen were removing dad from the ice. As a doctor checked me over (concerned about my right hand) I overheard a cop talking about deep grooves, like from a sled, were cut into the ice and I heard an ambulance man telling someone, with a humourless chuckle, to be careful carrying the body in case anything snaps off.

I watched the ambulance leave still holding onto hope that he’d wake up. How often do you hear about people being kept alive in extreme temperatures? Like Han Solo. Carbonite, cryogenics… It’s all Movie talk. Fantasy. Besides, he drowned long before the cold would have set in.

He was gone.

So, I sit here by the lake that took my father but now takes his name looking at the spot where he disappeared pretending that the dull throb in my right wrist is him, tapping me a message. The same message every winter.

“Don’t worry,” my dad would say with a smile, “It’ll be okay.”

That’s the reason I hate winter.

Because I miss my dad.

Merry Christmas.