Reflections in the Ice
by Anthony Kleem
Snow fell like shards of shattered glass as Michiko stepped onto the stone path. Water dripped from the temple eaves and fell into the lake like a clock’s heartbeat. She stopped halfway, turned, and watched a monk sweep snow from the steps. Wind breathed life into chimes while her sandals crushed the frozen path. Michiko reached out her hand, touched the snow, and felt it melt in her palm. The wind whispered to her and carried the temple’s perfume. Aloewood, cedar, and cloves sang to Michiko from the temple’s heart. She looked back. Amidst the snow-covered trees, the golden temple watched her depart in silence.
Michiko rose, approached the shoji, and slid the door open. From the veranda, she peered into the garden. Frost clung to the bare maple while snow fell into the pond. She closed the door and returned to the kotatsu. Cedar and tea waltzed around Michiko as she examined the black and gold pen. Next to it sat a sheet of white paper. It was blank. She lifted the pen, uncapped it, and watched its gold trim dance in the lantern-light. Michiko capped the pen, set it down, and sighed. Temple bells marked the time as snow baptised the city.
She watched the white butterfly float upwards as distant temple bells haunted the room. The cicada chorus swelled. He capped the pen, pocketed it, and leaned back in his chair. Michilo noted the white chrysanthemum that decorated his yukata. The bells tolled again while Michiko sighed.
He once told her that the temple’s beauty was too complete. He had said that such beauty was false. As she returned to the golden temple, Michiko stopped, looked down, and watched as its reflection melted in the ice. A student sketched the pavilion. Michiko watched him before she turned towards the temple. Its golden light shone like a star against the grey sky. A white butterfly floated between Michiko and the temple. It landed on her finger and flew away as the wind brushed past the chimes. She felt a tear against her cheek and looked away from the temple.
Snow fell and dusk descended as Michiko entered her room. Jasmine and tobacco lingered in the air. She ran the tap, filled a cup, and let the gold nib soak. Satisfied, Michiko dried the nib and filled the pen with blue-black ink. She opened the shoji and watched the snow fall on the garden stones. The lantern light shimmered across the shattered ice, and Michiko saw the temple’s imperfect glow dissolve in the snow. There she saw its imperfect beauty. She returned to her desk, uncapped her pen, and smiled.
BIO: Anthony Kleem is a writer from Northeast Ohio