The ending of 'Turtle Under Ice' is this quiet, bittersweet crescendo that lingers long after you close the book. It follows Rowena and her journey through grief after her sister’s death, and the way Juleah del Rosario wraps up her story feels like exhaling after holding your breath for too long. Rowena finally confronts the weight of her loss during a pivotal moment at the lake—the same place where her sister’s absence is most palpable. There’s no dramatic revelation, just this raw, aching acceptance. The imagery of the turtle surfacing from under ice becomes this beautiful metaphor for Rowena slowly emerging from her numbness.
What gets me every time is how the poetry format amplifies the emotional punch. The sparse lines and fragmented thoughts mirror Rowena’s disjointed grief, but by the end, there’s a subtle shift—more space between words, like she’s learning to breathe again. The last poem leaves you with this fragile hope, not that everything’s fixed, but that she’s starting to let light in. It’s one of those endings that doesn’t tie things up neatly, and that’s exactly why it works. Real healing isn’t linear, and the book honors that.
That ending hit me like a ton of bricks, and I'm still unpacking it months later. 'Turtle Under Ice' isn't just about grief—it's about the messy, nonlinear process of learning to live with loss. The abruptness of the finale mirrors how life doesn't neatly wrap up emotional journeys. One minute you're drowning, the next you gasp for air, but the water's always there lurking. I love how the author trusted readers to sit with that discomfort instead of handing us cheap closure.
What really lingers is the symbolism of the title itself. Turtles carry their homes; the characters are literally and figuratively frozen under layers of unprocessed pain. The ending doesn't melt the ice—it shows the first cracks. That brutal honesty about recovery being a lifelong thaw makes it more powerful than any tidy resolution could've been. Still gives me goosebumps thinking about that final image of footprints disappearing into snow.
If you loved the poetic fragmentation and emotional depth of 'Turtle Under Ice', you might enjoy 'The Poet X' by Elizabeth Acevedo. Both books use verse to explore raw, personal narratives—Acevedo’s work dives into identity and family with a fiery, lyrical voice that echoes the vulnerability in Juleah Del Rosario’s writing. Another gem is 'Long Way Down' by Jason Reynolds, which packs a punch in its sparse, impactful stanzas, unraveling grief and choices during a elevator ride. For quieter, introspective vibes, 'Inside Out & Back Again' by Thanhha Lai stitches together displacement and resilience through a child’s eyes.
Don’t overlook 'Clap When You Land' (also by Acevedo)—it’s got that dual-perspective magic and themes of loss and connection. And if you’re after something more surreal but equally haunting, 'The Realm of Possibility' by David Levithan weaves interconnected stories in verse, kind of like how 'Turtle Under Ice' fragments reality to mirror emotional chaos. Honestly, I keep these on my shelf for days when I need words that feel like a heartbeat.