I’ve been watching the news from the United States this week, and it struck me how one small word can carry two very different weights depending on which side of the border you’re standing on.
Down there, “ICE” is heavy. It’s loaded. It comes with fear, tension, arguments, and headlines that make you stop scrolling and sigh.
Up here in Toronto, ICE usually just means… ice.
The crunchy kind under your boots.
The annoying kind on the driveway.
The slippery reminder that winter still has a say.
This morning, Bob stepped outside, coffee in hand, and the only ICE problem on the agenda was whether the sidewalk looked like a skating rink or just a mildly hostile patch of pavement. No sirens. No shouting. No dread. Just a neighbour with a shovel giving a polite nod—the unofficial Canadian peace treaty.
And then the best part happened.
The weather turned.
Sunlight did what sunlight does best. The ice softened, cracked, and quietly disappeared. The driveway went from danger zone to wet concrete. The street breathed again. Winter loosened its grip just enough to remind us that things can change without force or fear—sometimes all it takes is a bit of warmth.
Standing there, watching the ice melt, Bob felt grateful. Grateful that when we talk about ICE here, we’re usually talking about salt, boots, and whether we should’ve put down one more scoop before bedtime.
Grateful that the biggest consequence is wet socks, not broken lives.
It’s strange how the same word can mean stress in one place and sunshine in another.
Today, ICE melted.
And honestly, that felt like a pretty good headline.
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