I used to love to ice skate. Somehow, somewhere, my mom got hold of a used pair of figure skates in my size, and when it had been cold enough, long enough, I would trek down to Cobbs Creek, lace them up, and skate on that frozen stream as far as I could, blowing plumes of breath into the wintry air. The park was especially beautiful in the desolate light of winter; you could hardly hear the traffic on the parkway.
I was not an especially good skater; let’s say I was adequate, and never got any better. But it felt like flying, and that was more than enough. Later, when I was a grown-up, I’d go skating late at night at the Class of ’23 rink with my brothers (who were much better skaters than I could ever hope to be), and in keeping with the family tradition of parallel play, which is to say, close but actually never involved, didn’t try to help me improve.
I longed to skate backward like they did, but alas, it was not to be. But sometimes I still dream about skating.
