Frozen Ghosts on the Horizon

Jimmy revisits his childhood park in Winnipeg's unforgiving winter, a silent companion his only witness to a flood of imperfect memories, culminating in an unexpected discovery that stirs old feelings.

"Yeah, well, someone's gotta do it," I muttered, the steam puffing from my mouth in quick, frosty bursts. Barnaby, my Labrador, looked up, his white muzzle dusted with fresh snow, a silent, furry question mark against the muted grey of the Winnipeg sky. He didn't care about the 'it,' just the potential for a dropped mitten or an unexpected squirrel. I blew on my numb fingertips inside my gloves, the cheap knit doing little against the -20 degree air. This wasn't the kind of cold that bit; it was the kind that just settled in your bones and told you it wasn't leaving anytime soon.

He gave a soft whimper, pulling gently on the leash. "Alright, alright. Just taking it all in." Taking it all in meant letting the familiar ache of the cold seep into my ears, past my toque, and remember how it felt when I was ten, thinking frostbite was a badge of honor.

We crunched through the fresh powder that covered the beaten-down path, each step a small, satisfying collapse. The park, known officially as Haddington Park but to us, simply "the Ravine," lay quiet, its usual summer hum of children and skateboards replaced by a stark, hushed stillness. Trees, skeletal against the flat horizon, held clumps of snow like fragile porcelain ornaments. It looked different now, cleaned up in some places, overgrown in others. The city always tried to make things better, but "better" usually meant "less interesting."

We passed the old concrete picnic tables, now buried under drifts, indistinguishable lumps. I remembered scraping my knee on one of their sharp corners once, trying to outrun Carl Maxwell in a game of tag. Carl, who now posted thirst traps from Tulum, oblivious to the fact that his formative years involved scabby knees and competitive snowball fights where the snow was often yellow. Good times.

### The Rust-Kissed Arch

Further in, past where the old wading pool used to be – now just a sunken, snow-filled depression – stood the metal archway. It was supposed to be grand, marking the entrance to the 'naturalized' section. But the paint had peeled years ago, leaving rust blooms across its surface, looking less like a welcoming gate and more like an abandoned relic of a defunct municipal project. Beneath it, carved into the metal by some bored teenager years ago, was still my atrocious initial, 'J.D.' for Jimmy Dutton. I paused, Barnaby sniffing intently at a phantom scent under the snow. I traced the 'J' with a gloved finger, the metal shockingly cold even through the wool. It felt like yesterday, me and Kelsie, sharing a can of warm Coke, convinced we were so cool. Kelsie, who I hadn't seen in… longer than I wanted to think about. She'd moved to Montreal for art school. Probably painting abstract snowscapes, utterly unlike the real thing.

"Still there," I mumbled to Barnaby, who responded with a gentle tug. He was ready for the next sniffable thing. I chuckled. "Right. Priorities."

---

The path dipped, following the nearly invisible line of the creek. In summer, it was a sluggish ribbon of murky water, a repository for lost plastic toys and the occasional drowned beetle. In winter, it was a solid, unmoving white sheet, save for a few dark ripples where the current stubbornly refused to give up the ghost, leaving thin, dark veins of water against the ice. We used to try and dam it with rocks, me and Kelsie, convinced we could divert it into a grand, miniature lake. We never did. It always found a way around our clumsy efforts. A good lesson, I suppose, if you were paying attention. We weren't. We were just focused on not slipping on the muddy banks.

The air, sharp with the scent of frozen earth and damp pine, scraped at my throat with each breath. Barnaby snuffled at a snowdrift, a cloud of white puffing up around his nose. He looked like a creature of pure winter, a polar explorer in miniature. I envied his single-mindedness, the way a new smell could erase all other concerns. My mind, meanwhile, was a poorly organized archive, pulling up files on command, most of them labelled 'Regret' or 'What If.'

We moved towards the old swing set, a skeletal frame against the grey. The chains, thick with rust, hung silent, devoid of the familiar creak and clank. I remembered a dare, the kind of stupid challenge only ten-year-olds could invent. Carl Maxwell, again, betting I couldn't jump from the highest point of the swing. I did, of course, landing hard enough to jar my teeth and send a jolt up my spine, but the adrenaline had been its own reward. The memory felt distant, like a story I'd read, not something I'd lived. My joints now would probably just seize up at the thought.

### Echoes on the Hill

The main sledding hill, a modest rise behind the swing set, was now a smooth, untouched canvas of snow. No tracks marred its pristine surface, no bright plastic toboggans lay abandoned at its base. It was too cold, too early in the season for the crowds. This was where we’d spent entire Saturdays, red-faced and breathless, careening down the slope, often landing in a tangle of limbs and laughter. This was also where I almost told Kelsie something important, once, a string of words caught on my tongue like ice, only for a rogue snowball from Carl to smash into my face, effectively resetting the moment. The universe, it seemed, had a sense of humor, albeit a brutal one.

I kicked at a snowdrift near the base of the hill, the satisfying crunch loud in the quiet. Barnaby, ever hopeful, mistook it for an invitation to play, pouncing into the snow with an enthusiastic wriggle. He looked up at me, a chunk of snow on his nose, his tail thumping a soft rhythm against the powder. "No, not a snowball," I said, laughing despite the cold. "Just... thinking."

Thinking about how much had changed, how little the park itself had, fundamentally. The same trees, just older. The same slopes, just more worn. It was a mirror, reflecting a different version of me, one I barely recognized, one full of unsaid things and untested courage. The air felt heavier, not just with the cold, but with the weight of all those forgotten moments, pressing down like the snow on the branches.

We circled back, tracing our steps towards the path that led out of the park. The chill was finally starting to penetrate my layers, seeping past the fleece and the wool. My nose had begun to drip, a familiar winter annoyance. Barnaby, oblivious, continued his diligent sniffing, occasionally digging at a particularly enticing patch of snow. His movements were small, focused excavations. My gaze, however, was wider, scanning the familiar, yet alien, landscape.

### A Buried Artifact

Near the edge of what used to be the 'secret fort' — a jumble of fallen branches and overgrown bushes that now just looked like a messy pile of sticks under the snow — Barnaby stopped. Not just a casual sniff, but a deep, focused excavation. His tail went rigid. He started digging with a frantic urgency, sending sprays of snow over his back. This wasn't a squirrel. This was something more. I knelt, my knees protesting the cold, and gently pushed him aside. Under a layer of half-frozen soil and matted leaves, dislodged by Barnaby’s enthusiasm, was a small, grey object.

It was a disposable camera. Waterlogged. Mud-caked. The plastic casing was brittle, faded from years of exposure. My breath hitched, despite my earlier resolve to avoid such clichés. It looked like one of ours. One of the many we'd used to document our summer antics, back when disposable cameras were still a thing, before every phone was a high-definition video studio.

I carefully scraped away the mud, holding it gently. No way to tell if the film inside was still viable. No way to tell what images might be captured within its water-damaged casing. But the weight of it in my hand, the sheer improbability of finding it now, felt significant. A forgotten relic, unearthed by a bored dog, in a park I'd thought I'd fully explored, both physically and emotionally.

It could be nothing. Just a piece of junk. Or it could be a small window into a past I’d tucked away, a past with Kelsie, full of scraped knees and shared Cokes under a rusted arch. The chill of the camera in my hand was a different kind of cold now, not bone-deep, but sharp and electric. A faint, almost imperceptible image of a smiling Kelsie, caught in the sun, flickered behind my eyes.

Barnaby nudged my hand, his soft nose a warm press against my cold knuckles. He looked up, his expression unreadable, but his eyes seemed to ask, 'Well? What now?'

I stood up, brushing snow from my coat, the camera clutched tight. What now, indeed. The wind picked up, whipping a fine spray of snow across my face, but I barely felt it. The cold had given way to something else, a strange flicker of warmth in my chest. A simple disposable camera, buried for years. It felt like a small, unexpected invitation.