His hand, a claw, grasping mine tightly
Fingers locked, so tight they've gone pale between red knuckles.
Pressure on my wrist. Bearing down and dragging, somehow, at the same time.
My shoulder aches from the added weight.
A delicate frame and rigid spine struggling to keep 175 pounds upright.
My ankles tremble, knees lock into place. A cramp burns across the arch of an unsupported foot, but I bite the inside of my cheek and let the sharp pain distract me. I'm on high alert, constantly scanning...surface, sound, swarm.
And him.
I'm hyper-focused...tunnel vision lasered in on his feet...his legs...his hands...his eyes...his breathing.
His face is set. Furrow in the brow. Lips clenched. The wind lifts his hair in flutters, irritating him every time it brushes against his eyebrows.
He talks almost constantly...a cross between a plea and an excuse, only ever so rarely an exclamation of surprise or pride or both. I can't hear the words through the din, depending on his features to convey the message as they expand and contract. His eyes bore into mine, then flick away to assess. He flexes his other hand, as though the fingers are sensors. Looks down at his ankles and, remembering a former stumble, winces. For a moment wondering if he should complain again. His eyes meet mine, locking on my face...searching for a signal. He studies me and I know it, and so I smile...forcing my eyes to brighten and feigning nonchalance. He looks to me for guidance, and I give it...my features carefully molded into "carefree" to let him know all is well. He takes my cue and we push forward, hand in hand, feet in sync.
My nerves are frayed. His must be too. The music so loud. I worry that his earplugs aren't doing the trick. The push and pull of the crowd around us is dizzying. People swoop in too close, others flash by. We swerve and stumble, trying to avoid collisions. If we venture too far in, he starts to waver, feet wobbling and knees turning to jello. So I twist my feet, aiming us toward the outside again. He grabs for the edge. The wall a lifeline. He straightens up again, knees solid once more. A breath, deep and long. Another flicker as his eyes lock with mine. Then, almost imperceptibly, a nod.
Permission to try again.
We take it slow, left...than right...than left again. Feet leading, dragging us along for the ride. Finally, his knees bend. He leans forward instead of back.
The relief on my arm is immediate.
The ache in my shoulder fades.
His hand still grips mine tightly but now it tugs me forward. He takes the lead, and I push to keep up. The crowd shifts, a path opening up in the spaces between. Our arms spread out...fingers laced, as he heads right and I head left. My feet angle in, bringing us closer again as I feel his hand spasm in mine. I look up...5'8" turning up to 6'3", slowing down to check in.
So we go. Progress in fits and starts. Once round. Then again. This time more of an oval as I veer us away from the sides, testing the limits.
The grooves trouble him. Etchings from those who went before. I see him analyzing them, trying to figure out which way to go to avoid getting stuck in someone else's path. Near the edges they are deeper, remnants of false starts and stops, so I steer him past.
We slow down as the curve straightens, coming to a stop. Wobbling a bit as our feet straighten out.
He goes first. grasping the wall, unsure once more. I come behind, stopping to let others past, then stepping off myself. He heads to the bench and sits. I follow, suddenly aware of the throbbing in my left arch and my own shaky knees.
He needs no help now.
Unlacing.
We carry our skates back to the rental desk. Trade them in for size 7 and size 12. Big and little, inexplicably gone reverse along the way. Stuff our feet in. Zip our coats up. Head to the door...to the car...to home.
On the car ride home, he picks back up on his papercraft project. Once again in his own world.
I glance back in the mirror, note his bowed head, intent on the page in front of him...on the lines he's drawing, straight and strong.
I'm tired. Eager to get home and start a fresh coffee press. Already listing ingredients for dinner prep. Wondering if there'll be snow tomorrow.
Planning for the next time. Knowing that as we both learn to skate, he needs me as he did when he was young. He needs my help and my strength, my guidance and my support. He needs his mami.
We're a team on the ice. Feet syncing up. Hand in hand.
I live in that space, when we stumble and weave across the ice.
Needing to be needed like that, every once in while, before he grows up and out and away from me.
Fingers locked, so tight they've gone pale between red knuckles.
Pressure on my wrist. Bearing down and dragging, somehow, at the same time.
My shoulder aches from the added weight.
A delicate frame and rigid spine struggling to keep 175 pounds upright.
My ankles tremble, knees lock into place. A cramp burns across the arch of an unsupported foot, but I bite the inside of my cheek and let the sharp pain distract me. I'm on high alert, constantly scanning...surface, sound, swarm.
And him.
I'm hyper-focused...tunnel vision lasered in on his feet...his legs...his hands...his eyes...his breathing.
His face is set. Furrow in the brow. Lips clenched. The wind lifts his hair in flutters, irritating him every time it brushes against his eyebrows.
He talks almost constantly...a cross between a plea and an excuse, only ever so rarely an exclamation of surprise or pride or both. I can't hear the words through the din, depending on his features to convey the message as they expand and contract. His eyes bore into mine, then flick away to assess. He flexes his other hand, as though the fingers are sensors. Looks down at his ankles and, remembering a former stumble, winces. For a moment wondering if he should complain again. His eyes meet mine, locking on my face...searching for a signal. He studies me and I know it, and so I smile...forcing my eyes to brighten and feigning nonchalance. He looks to me for guidance, and I give it...my features carefully molded into "carefree" to let him know all is well. He takes my cue and we push forward, hand in hand, feet in sync.
My nerves are frayed. His must be too. The music so loud. I worry that his earplugs aren't doing the trick. The push and pull of the crowd around us is dizzying. People swoop in too close, others flash by. We swerve and stumble, trying to avoid collisions. If we venture too far in, he starts to waver, feet wobbling and knees turning to jello. So I twist my feet, aiming us toward the outside again. He grabs for the edge. The wall a lifeline. He straightens up again, knees solid once more. A breath, deep and long. Another flicker as his eyes lock with mine. Then, almost imperceptibly, a nod.
Permission to try again.
We take it slow, left...than right...than left again. Feet leading, dragging us along for the ride. Finally, his knees bend. He leans forward instead of back.
The relief on my arm is immediate.
The ache in my shoulder fades.
His hand still grips mine tightly but now it tugs me forward. He takes the lead, and I push to keep up. The crowd shifts, a path opening up in the spaces between. Our arms spread out...fingers laced, as he heads right and I head left. My feet angle in, bringing us closer again as I feel his hand spasm in mine. I look up...5'8" turning up to 6'3", slowing down to check in.
So we go. Progress in fits and starts. Once round. Then again. This time more of an oval as I veer us away from the sides, testing the limits.
The grooves trouble him. Etchings from those who went before. I see him analyzing them, trying to figure out which way to go to avoid getting stuck in someone else's path. Near the edges they are deeper, remnants of false starts and stops, so I steer him past.
We slow down as the curve straightens, coming to a stop. Wobbling a bit as our feet straighten out.
He goes first. grasping the wall, unsure once more. I come behind, stopping to let others past, then stepping off myself. He heads to the bench and sits. I follow, suddenly aware of the throbbing in my left arch and my own shaky knees.
He needs no help now.
Unlacing.
We carry our skates back to the rental desk. Trade them in for size 7 and size 12. Big and little, inexplicably gone reverse along the way. Stuff our feet in. Zip our coats up. Head to the door...to the car...to home.
On the car ride home, he picks back up on his papercraft project. Once again in his own world.
I glance back in the mirror, note his bowed head, intent on the page in front of him...on the lines he's drawing, straight and strong.
I'm tired. Eager to get home and start a fresh coffee press. Already listing ingredients for dinner prep. Wondering if there'll be snow tomorrow.
Planning for the next time. Knowing that as we both learn to skate, he needs me as he did when he was young. He needs my help and my strength, my guidance and my support. He needs his mami.
We're a team on the ice. Feet syncing up. Hand in hand.
I live in that space, when we stumble and weave across the ice.
Needing to be needed like that, every once in while, before he grows up and out and away from me.
~Leanna
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