Winter so bitter that year, the thermometer shattered. Careful with the shards of glass, you scooped up the tiny rivulet that looked like liquid from Polaris and let it pool in your hand. It seemed more alive than many living things. It shook and quivered. If you touched it with your tongue, would your words gleam bright before they tarnished? If you dipped your fingers, would you have a lesser Midas touch? This was long before the spill at Minamata, before the Cree in Manitoba fell sick from eating fish. When you were young, it was one of the few gifts the cold of your country gave you. Quicksilver, kin of ice and ether, the name itself like something from a fairytale, a trembling wishing pearl inside a fish’s belly, a coin-like puddle you split in two and placed on each eyelid so you could navigate the night ahead, your sight lit up with neon.