“where is the ice?” The irritated voice of my father gave me a chill. That was my job. Uh oh.
Every day I made the ice. I made it in the morning. it was always before and it was always after. I carefully carried the water filled trays across the kitchen in fear of spilling. I loaded the bin with fresh cubes in hope of peace.
The sound of ice swirling in the glass signaled another round. Maybe that is why I have my water with “no ice, please.” Making ice became a compulsion. An empty ice cube tray tossed in a sink could send resentment pouring through me like martinis from a pitcher.
A breath. I am an adult. A look out the window reveals a lovely garden. The curtain of time separates me from the past. I replace the filled tray and close the freezer door.
My father has an ice maker in the freezer now and an oxygen tank and a walker. Yesterday I brought him a glass filled with ice and bottles of booze. He mixed himself a gibson martini and stirred it with his finger. His diminished power has a sobering effect on father and daughter. Fear melts like the ice in his glass.