The First of January

Shifting beneath the faded, tartan wool blanket, Isaac turns onto his left side in a miserable attempt to get comfortable. He is lying on their old leather couch in the den - close to a crackling, cast-iron, wood burning stove - and sticks his bare feet out of the blanket to feel the heat on his skin. After a few minutes, he flips the end of the blanket back to cover his nearly-scorched toes - the wool muting the intensity of the heat. It was January first, and Isaac couldn’t sleep.

Isaac, turning fourteen in just over a week, lives with his father in a small fishing village on an inlet of Lake Ontario. Their house, just one story with two full bedrooms and a cozy, eat-in kitchen - more like a cottage, really - sits on a half-acre of land with its back facing the bay. The house has a short, wooden dock surrounded by water lilies, and in the summer - standing on the end of the dock - you can just make out the flock of sailboats that gather along the sand bar, past the wave breaker that extends out from the village lighthouse.

For many years, Isaac, his father, and his little brother, George, would spend their summers walking into the village to fish on the lighthouse pier or play at the local beach. George, one hand clinging to Isaac’s shirt and the other clutching his favorite Matchbox car, would babble Isaac’s name repeatedly as they made their way into town.

“Isaac! Isaac! Isaac! Isaac!”

At the time, Isaac found it irritating, but now, almost two summers and two winters since George’s death, Isaac would give anything to hear his voice.

Summer was always Isaac’s favorite time of year, but George loved the winter - his eyes wide with excitement when the first snowflakes would fall outside their kitchen window. George was seven years younger than Isaac, a considerable age difference, and Isaac grew up as his second caretaker - helping his father change diapers, put food on the table and babysit when his father was gone at work. While he could certainly get on Isaac’s nerves, Isaac knew George idolized him, and he would try to include him in his activities - especially in the winter when many of his friends would leave town to travel to their second homes.

In the cold, snowy months, Isaac would take George out ice-fishing on the bay. The two of them, hand-in-hand, would bundle up and trench through the snow, out past the dock and onto the water.

On the first day of each year, George would jump onto Isaac’s bed and yell, “Isaac! Is the pond frozen yet?”

Isaac would groan, inform George that they in fact lived on a lake and not a pond, and then shove him off the bed. Isaac loved their yearly ritual and would hide his smile while feigning annoyance. This first of January, Isaac clings to this memory as he drifts to sleep by the wood burning stove.

---

The breeze coming off the frozen lake licks Isaac’s exposed face as he and George trek through the fresh, powdery snow out into the bay. Isaac turns around to ensure George is following closely and notices that George’s ears are sticking out of his woven hat. He pulls the hat down over his ears and cups his mittens over George’s red cheeks. His cheeks are strikingly colorful in contrast to the snow that falls around them - and he hopes that they can last at least a couple of hours out on the bay to reel in a pike. He peers over George’s head and can see their house sitting on the shore, dripping with long icicles and nestled between two looming pine trees. He gazes down and watches as the snowfall covers their boot tracks, inch by inch.

George wriggles out of Isaac’s hands, fiercely independent at age five, and begins to run ahead of him. George stumbles in his winter boots and falls into the snow. Isaac, alert as always, runs to help George and wipes his face clear of snow. While Isaac wipes and tries to stifle a laugh, George stands still and helpless with his arms sticking straight out from his side - his thick winter jacket comically large on a five-year-old’s body.

Isaac looks down at George’s face and can see tears forming on the lid below his chestnut, brown eyes. His long eyelashes are wet and catch the falling snowflakes. George still has a baby’s face with plump cheeks, large eyes and little nose, and the sight of tears triggers an instinctual protective response. Isaac plasters a wide smile on his face and lifts George onto his shoulders, instructing him to try and catch a snowflake with his tongue.

George laughs and waves his arms in the air, his tongue out and boots kicking against Isaac’s jacket. George points to a spot to their right, where their tent and ice-fishing equipment sits on the ice - seemingly a mirage in the falling snow. The snow is coming down harder than before, and Isaac rushes toward the tent. He takes one last look behind them and can no longer see their house on the shore - the falling sheet of snow blocking his view. Isaac, breathing heavily beneath George’s weight, ducks beneath the tent flap and sets George down onto the ice next to him.

They both breathe a sigh of relief and lay down beneath the tent roof, catching their breath and relishing the stillness inside. George lifts the tent flap to peek out at the snow and gasps, quickly shutting it and turns to take a seat next to Isaac. Inside the tent, Isaac sets up two folding chairs left from earlier in the day and grabs the ice auger to punch a hole in the bay where he last drilled. The water sloshes and churns to form a satisfying, near-perfect circle about a foot in diameter. Isaac instructs George to watch out for these holes, as he knows many of their neighbors have come to drill their own in recent weeks. George nods his head and stands up to roam around the tent.

Setting up the wooden, standalone fishing rod, Isaac takes off his mittens and threads the fishing line through the pole, dropping the baited end into the water. Isaac’s heart races with excitement as he thinks about the pike he caught last year, it’s sharp teeth almost tearing his hand as he pulled it onto the ice. The pikes in this part of Lake Ontario are legendary - massive fish the size of a canoe paddle with razor teeth like a shark, and Isaac is determined to catch another to mount in the den.

Isaac’s hands are numb from threading the fishing line, and he quickly puts on his mittens to stave off the cold. He brought several hand-warmers to last the afternoon and remembers he told George to keep a few in his jacket pocket. He yells George’s name and when he doesn’t immediately hear a response, he stands and glances around the tent. Heart thumping beneath his winter jacket, Isaac runs out of the tent into the falling snow, calling George’s name.

“George! George! George! George!”

It’s snowing even more heavily and Isaac can hardly see the tent just yards away from him. He gasps for air and blinks away the wet snowflakes. His head throbbing, the world around him is a blur - almost colorless - whirling snow forming the only shapes in his line of sight. Desperately, Isaac scans his immediate surroundings, and runs in circles around the tent. He trips on something, falls forward and hears a cracking sound. Putting his weight on his front foot, the ice beneath splits open, and his boot plunges into the slush. The water fills his boot, but in his panic, Isaac hardly notices the numbing cold.

After what feels like several hours, although he knows it has only been a few minutes at most, Isaac spots a small shape in the distance. His breath escapes his chest and vision sharpens as he sprints toward the shape - now quite clearly a body lying in the snow. Isaac rushes to pick George up off the ice. The tears streaming down Isaac’s face freeze onto his eyelashes. George is unresponsive.

Isaac leans forward to listen for George’s breathing. The snowfall is slowing down, and Isaac can now see their house on the shoreline quite clearly. He sees his father open the back door, feet bare, running out onto the bay. He feels for George’s pulse, but his hands are too numb to feel anything.

---

Isaac wakes abruptly, sits up and throws the tartan wool blanket onto the floor. He’s sweating and trembling and bends over to put his head in his hands, elbows propped on his knees. After several minutes, his head clears and he lays back onto the armrest of the couch.

His father must have come into the den in the night to feed the flames inside the wood burning stove. The door to the stove is now slightly ajar and Isaac stares into the glowing, orange embers. His vision blurs as tears form in his eyes. This time, the tears do not freeze onto his eyelashes - they drip, hot and heavy onto the worn leather of the couch.