Wintertime. I’m ice skating at Oakton Park. It’s late evening, dusk dipping down behind the trees surrounding the park. I am alone on the skating rink with fresh, soft, silent snowflakes glittering down around me. The moon is rising, huge, and provides all the light I need as I glide effortlessly through the lightness of fresh falling snow.
I am free.
Each push with my right leg skates me into the future, leaving a trail even I can see. The fine skate line of the past trails behind me, carving a beautiful pattern in ice, proving my existence. As does my shadow, accompanying me round and round, copying my every move . . . flowing movements of my past, future, and present in a sparkling, enlightened solitude.
I glide. I soar. I could easily skate into flight at any moment, if only I had the faith and the courage. Courage to have faith.
Grandma Elsa’s finely knitted candy-cane stocking cap and mittens keep me warm. Her matching knitted scarf streams out behind me, fluttering a trail of my grandmother’s goodness. My fine skate prints in snow and ice trace her love and kindness in my wake, in my past.
And I know one day I will find my voice.