Circa, 1993

I don't remember the end, and I really don't remember the beginning, other than it was a birthday party and I felt really special because Jen Matthews asked me to go, and she was one of the popular girls. I guess this is something from the middle, somewhere between the times when everything was earmarked by surgery dates, physical therapy and me downing pain pills to make it through the day.

It's one distinct memory, the kind that we have maybe only one of. The kind that sticks, turns into a movie moment for us, that, if we could, all the people we have ever loved would get to be there. This is one of those kinds of memories. It's nothing fancy, but it's mine and it's priceless to me.

I guess it was around five in the morning. Before most kids ever want to get up, I was already out of the house and all the way across Birmingham to a slightly run down, ice skating rink. There was only one person there, Ding, because he ran the place and knew I was coming. I wouldn't see him, he gave this time to me which is why after the pneumonia, I can't remember a guy I dated for over a year, but I can remember the name of the guy who owned a rink and had tattoos of naked women on his arms. He marked something special, something that could never be put in a box, but would mean more to me than just about everything.

You would think that a huge arena would be creepy with no one in it. No usual sound of Guns-N-Roses blasting out of the sound system. No smell of gooey, nacho cheese and hot chocolate. No arcade blasts, that I think they got rid of and my brother quit coming, or rather quit being forced to come, to the rink while I practiced. There used to be a jukebox that you could play songs on the big system with, for only a quarter. You would think without all the usual sounds, it would be odd, but it never was for me. The quiet that settled over the place was like a silk scarf being tossed in the air, and floating to rest, soundlessly on the ground.

The sound of laces being snatched through my skates, the hiss of the strings wearing permanent calluses on my fingers, the re-balancing I always had to do when I stood up on my skates, all these nuances were for me only. The soft thump of the double doors shutting marked when I got to see her, my rink, my ice, my space, my greatest love affair with something I could never keep. Thick layers of fog rested over the ice so that it looked like something out of a fairy tale, soft and a little spooky.

The first step was tentative, breath puffing out in baby clouds being sucked up by the fog. Then, I pushed out onto the frozen mass. I heard my skates dig, and slice, pick and damage. I went from being cold, to sweating, to knowing that no matter what happened, I was okay. The ice made it alright. The silence that hung heavy during the flight of a jump, and, oh dear God, how I could jump. I worked to make the silence drag out longer just so that when I heard the crunching hiss of my skates when I landed, it would be that much sweeter. Oh, it was sweet. It was freedom. It was pure, unadulterated joy, ecstasy and high I never achieved with drugs, and I tried. I'm so sorry, but I did try really hard to get that high again and failed in so many ways. So many...

Fast forward to this past weekend, when I was in Jackson. The rink that I built so many memories on is gone. I think it's some kind of indoor volleyball practice place, but I don't really know because I can't drive by there anymore. When they gutted it, my brother was going to get me a piece of the floor, or maybe the sign, but he didn't and it's the only time I ever felt let down by him. That's harsh, I know, but I couldn't do it for me, but in a way, I guess what he did was better for my psyche, better for me getting over, getting past. Or maybe he just couldn't do it either. I look up at my husband and say, "We're gonna be in Jackson, ya know. Do you think I should bring my skates? I mean, I know we'll have time, but, I dunno, what do you think?"

I know he hears the desperation, the longing, but most of all, I know he hears the fear. The fear of being hurt again. No, I'm not talking about falling and screwing up my knees, no, not that hurt. The pain, the absolute and consuming anguish that will come when I know that when I get off the ice, I won't be able to go back anytime soon. I won't have my mornings of solitude, where I can recapture my affair with the ice, where I will have to walk away and break my heart all over again. Do you remember the first time you really had your heart broken? I mean really had your heart ripped out, crying so hard you couldn't breathe, wanting to puke because it hurt so deep in the pit of your stomach? That's what it feels like to me to leave the rink, the ice, the smells, the sounds, the beauty and the joy. The memory of something so powerful that I was truly free there. It was my peace, my center, my punishment, my push, my success, my failure, my pain, my wonder, my something special.

I didn't take my skates. I'll have to live with the feelings of that for a while, both the sensible and the sad. Then again, I've been doing that for years now, so I guess I'm pretty practiced.