On the Ice

At the Highland Ice Rink, there is nothing but white: ice andwalls. Going into the white is what I love about skating. Into the cold of winter or any day of the year. In the center of the rink, the young girls in their spangle skirts practice spins and breathtaking leaps, landing on splindly legs, and none of them care because in their minds, they are beautiful. An old man, hands clasped behind his back, has his own beauty and takes his turns, crossing his skates, each in front of the other, with a stubborn confidence. A father and a daughter play tag. "You're it," he shouts, and she turns laughing, red-faced, loving him. All around me such enthusiasm, even from people who skate like toddlers, chopping headlong across the ice. Over there, a man is holding his girlfriend up as she tries this new way of walking. I skate among the skaters. Have only about ten minutes of wistfulness when I imagine a date skating with me. But can't stay wistful for long because of the spinning girls, the old man, the father and daughter, the couple, and everyone else who have decided to spend their Wednesday night. On the ice.