New Spring Dawning and a Fear of Dismemberment.
I feel it coming. The time of year when the snow starts rotting from the inside out; the time of year when walking over snow can lead to a sudden drop to your waist or knee. I'm always worried that I'll slide into the snow and roll my ankle, break my leg or something. I think I read about it happening in a book once. And then you're waist-deep in the snow and how do you get out? It's just a scary idea to me.
The snow's been washed off the bay by the rain today so the whole thing looks like an opaque glass. Like a giant skating rink. Makes me remember the last time I went skating; in my father's rusted skates, pushing myself along and marvelling at the way my muscles remembered the act of balance, the way my body never forgot. Afterwards my soles blistered from the skates, the heels blistered, the cramped feeling of being confined in a boot a half-size too small for too long. The feeling of someone coming home for the first time after a time away. I've got a broad and flat foot that doesn't take well to most shoes, so wearing skates that were too small, focusing all my near-200-lbs onto two thin blades of rusting steel, took its toll on me. The ice still sounded crisp as I carved myself around and around the oval. I leaned too far forward once and nearly did a front flip, thankful no one was close ahead of me to be split in half or bludgeoned to death by the hard plastic heel.
It was a wonderful experience and makes me curious about how many secret memories you might store in your thigh or your calf; makes me wonder if my body has a memory for every action I've done. I wonder the same thing when I get on a bicycle for the first time in the year, or the first time my body is submerged in a river or pond. My body learns lessons and remembers them better than my mind ever could.
The snow's been washed off the bay by the rain today so the whole thing looks like an opaque glass. Like a giant skating rink. Makes me remember the last time I went skating; in my father's rusted skates, pushing myself along and marvelling at the way my muscles remembered the act of balance, the way my body never forgot. Afterwards my soles blistered from the skates, the heels blistered, the cramped feeling of being confined in a boot a half-size too small for too long. The feeling of someone coming home for the first time after a time away. I've got a broad and flat foot that doesn't take well to most shoes, so wearing skates that were too small, focusing all my near-200-lbs onto two thin blades of rusting steel, took its toll on me. The ice still sounded crisp as I carved myself around and around the oval. I leaned too far forward once and nearly did a front flip, thankful no one was close ahead of me to be split in half or bludgeoned to death by the hard plastic heel.
It was a wonderful experience and makes me curious about how many secret memories you might store in your thigh or your calf; makes me wonder if my body has a memory for every action I've done. I wonder the same thing when I get on a bicycle for the first time in the year, or the first time my body is submerged in a river or pond. My body learns lessons and remembers them better than my mind ever could.