I was born twice: once from the womb of my mother and once from a womb of ice. It has been twenty-eight years since that second birth. I remember nothing of my first birth, but, sometimes, when the creeks freeze, I find myself drifting back.

The sun occasionally poked out between the clouds and mostly leafless maple and willow trees. Withered and brown, a few leaves stirred in the mid-December breeze. A wet snow laced the hills and banks leading down to the frozen Sandy Creek, leaving huge, alien snowflakes in a once familiar landscape on either side of us.

Despite the temperature, I wore only my General MacArthur khaki uniform. It was a birthday present from my parents, one that I had quietly begged for for two months. I was like that: more comfortable trying out different roles, preferably glamorous, than being myself. Fantasy and the theatrical wove its way into my shy, six-year-old existence. Books and imagination were my closest friends; they still are.

As usual, Debbie, my oldest cousin, nine, and devout tomboy, led the way, and I trailed her with Mark, seven, lingering behind. Cawing crows landed on black branches, momentarily scattering the silence of late afternoon. A dull thunk reverberated behind me followed by the silent skid of a rock sliding across the creek and clacking against a bolder imbedded on the opposite shore. I turned instinctively just as Mark hurled a second stone. It arced across the distance, landed on its side, and chipped the ice.