It was the last week of winter, and the snow was beginning to melt.
Maya could tell. The icicles on the porch were dripping, and the air smelled a little less like frost and a little more like wet earth. Everywhere, the sound of water trickled quietly: drip, drip, drip.
"The pond will not last much longer," said her dad, at supper. "The ice is getting thin."
Maya put down her spoon. "Can we skate on it once more?"
"I was hoping you would ask," said Dad.
After supper, they put on their skates and walked down to the pond, through the blue evening. The snow was soft and grey. The sky above the bare trees was pale gold, fading to pink, and the first star was already out.
The pond lay in front of them, a smooth silver oval. At the edges, the ice was dark and glassy, but in the middle it was still a pure, pale white.
"Stay near the shore tonight," said Dad. "We will go slowly."
They stepped on to the ice. It whispered under their blades. Shhhk, shhhk, shhhk.
Maya glided out in a long, slow curve. She had skated here all winter, with her friends, and her cousins, and a few other families from down the road. There had been shouting, and laughing, and games of tag. A hockey game on Saturdays. Hot chocolate from a thermos.
Tonight, there was no one else. The pond belonged to just the two of them, and the sky.
"It's so quiet," she said.
"It is," said Dad, gliding up beside her.
They skated side by side, round the edge of the pond, round and round in a gentle, easy rhythm. Maya's breath rose in little clouds. Her cheeks tingled. The stars slowly multiplied overhead, one by one, until the sky was full.
Under the ice, something shifted, with a deep, soft sound, like a long, slow sigh. Maya stopped.
"What was that?" she whispered.
"The ice is settling," said Dad. "It is getting ready to sleep, and then to melt. It is saying thank you."
"For what?"
"For all the skating."
Maya looked down at the white surface. She thought of every circle, every spin, every wobble. All of them were still written there, in thin, scratchy lines, a whole winter of memories.
"Thank you, pond," she said.
The ice sighed again, even softer.
They skated one more slow loop. Then Dad took her hand, and they walked back to the shore, sat on the bench, and unlaced their skates. Her feet felt light and strange, as feet do after a long skate.
On the way home, the stars shone through the trees. Maya yawned.
That night, in bed, she could hear the drip, drip, drip of the melting snow outside her window. It did not sound like an ending. It sounded like a lullaby, saying: sleep now. Spring is on its way.