My Cardboard Balcony

The Ice Is Thin by Belinda Roddie The ice is thin, and puddles slosh around my boots as I trek up the steep mountain, observing how the frost has turned to mush and glaciers have shrunk drastically. I can no longer feel the summer on my face, but still, the heat is ling'ring from my hike, the sweat rolling from my brow in large beads and soaking my jacket. I draw a map in the sad dirt to detail my journey, emphasizing the recession of chill so early in the year. They say I should retain hope, but it's getting difficult to cling to it. Will my grandchildren know what it's like to frolic in fields of snow?

Olivia had a copy of "Starry Night" etched onto the back of her jacket, and it almost made the fabric spring to life. I couldn't stop looking at it. When she hung it on the back of her chair, I was tempted to touch the textures, even though I knew it wasn't the real painting and I knew that Van Gogh probably would have been a bit confused by his artwork being stitched onto clothing.