Each childhood winter,
when the field behind the elementary school froze over,
I dreaded the opening of the skate house.
There I would shiver,
clumsily lace my skates,
lumber into my bulky coat and hat and scarf and mittens,
teeter to the wall,
creep hand over hand toward the doorway,
heave it open,
shock to the bracing slap of cold,
take slow, sideways steps,
blades horizontal,
my ankles already twinging,
sideways and down, left foot, right,
left foot lifted high above the right,
eyeing the blade so it wouldn’t slice my snow pants,
right foot,
left foot high above the right, then the sixth and final right foot down,
arriving at the edge of the ice,
jostled and pressed by those who ran down the steps,
jumped onto the ice,
those who were warm and excited and exuberant,
who couldn’t wait to soar on the ice,
who clearly did not register cold as pain,
the way I always have,
those who were impatient with the over-bundled
slow-moving Charlie Brown blocking the doorway.
Like the novice,
wobbly skater I have always been
I remained oh-so-close to the edge
again
grasping for constancy.
I slipped
skidded
regained my balance
righted myself
took each next step with the kind of caution
that slices coldly through joy
leapt from your skate house bed
and stumbled to the ice.
I tripped over you,
fell
just outside the grasp
of your warm
welcoming
waiting
embrace
to the frozen pond.
You, too, regained your balance,
stumbled briefly as you left the ice
laced your shoes
shrugged into your coat
walked away.
I was so sure that this time
we’d both fall.
And we did.
Just not the way we’d hoped.