How Not to Fall Down

Plus, upcoming gigs/classes and new prompt.

Too sharp.

Last week, I went ice skating for the first time in 10 years. For the first time ever, I was afraid to fall.

I like to skate at this time of year because my father loved to skate, because he took me to frozen ponds in Maine as a girl. My father died in January, many years ago. (January is Hard.) Skating helps me stay connected to him in a way that feels less morose. (It’s also a welcome distraction from terrifying daily news.)

My Dad was a fancy skater. He could do figure eights and the sharp, impressive stops of hockey players. He skated backwards and pulled me along. He hummed “Lara’s Theme” from Doctor Zhivago. I felt safe, as in, looked after. But also assured. My father was strong and capable in skates. No one thought he was my grandfather, as they did sometimes in restaurants. (He was 52 when I was born.) On the ice, he still had the youthful grace of an athlete.