The Snow Child

by Eowyn Ivey

As Jack knelt in the bloody snow, he wondered if that was how a man held up his end of the bargain, by learning and taking into his heart this strange wilderness—guarded and naked, violent and meek, tremulous in its greatness.

We are allowed to do that, are we not Mabel? To invent our own endings and choose joy over sorrow?

It was like a terrible thirst. He could drink and drink her in and it was never enough.

Where else in life, Mabel wondered, could a woman love so openly and with such abandon?

“Just me and you, old man,” Jack said and patted the dog’s graying muzzle. “Think you’ll find my pace suits you better.”