It is often said, when there is a loss, of human life of friendship or of possessions, that it is the little things that are missed: the way one’s spouse set the table, the lilt in a friend’s voice, the pattern in a broken dish.When I look out my window in the spring, summer, fall and early winter, it is the icicles I miss. It is the changes in each icicle as it succumbs to the elements of wind, snow, temperature and the relentless-changing rays of the sun-those changes that I miss.
Most changes take time: a child’s growth, a student’s perceptions and abilities, a well-written page, my own understanding and grasp of a concept. It takes time and patience. But oh, the icicle-its changes are by the minute, the second, tugged by temperatures that jump back and forth like a child whose movements are set to music.
When I need change, I stand up from the monotony of my desk, step away from the words on my computer screen and I watch the easily coaxed icicle, lengthening, shortening, fattening, thinning and all too soon the expected CRACK. The continuing, yet final sign of the icicle’s vulnerability, the sign that winter too, will come to an end.