We live in a log cabin at the edge of a forest in winter, overlooking a frozen lake. The aurora borealis dances in the sky, ribbons of kaleidoscopic light reflected on the mirror-smooth surface of the ice.
We spend our days ice-skating on the lake and reading novels by the fireplace. In the evenings, we climb up onto the roof of our log cabin and jump up and down on the rooftop. It takes a few tries, but eventually we push off from the rooftop and keep on going until we’re floating in midair, bobbing higher and higher until we are within the aurora.
Fish swim through the aurora alongside us: eels, manta rays, jellyfish. They are creatures of silver light riding the air currents. I catch up to a school of tiny darting fish and grab handfuls of the slick, wriggling things. My companion chases an octopus and grabs hold of a tentacle, yanking the creature towards him. When we have caught enough for our dinner, we drift back down with our bounty. In our log cabin, we carve up the fish and cook them over the fireplace. We eat our fill, and then we sleep, our bodies pressed close against each other.
