It is winter in Anchorage, and I am only as tall as the shoveled snowbanks in the parking lot of the pink apartments. I am old enough to have chores but young enough not to fully understand frostbite. It is not my turn to take out the trash. I’d like to think I was persuaded with hot chocolate or choosing the movie for the evening, but I’m sure it was just force that made me put my bare feet on the icy asphalt. I waddle to the dumpster with the bag that almost weighs as much as me. The slow burn of the ice threatens to peel the skin from my pinky toes with each step. I’m told I’m not old enough to tell my elders no. My small voice is frozen on the roof of my mouth anyway, so I continue trudging. I don’t remember getting rid of the bag or making it back upstairs, just a face in the mirror while mom ran warm water over my feet in the sink. It is desolate, disinterested in my ability to walk. I’d like to say we were just kids doing kid things, but I remember you had shoes on.