Goddard's Pond

The NHL hasn’t called me up,

nor am I Olympic bound,

so I take myself to Goddard’s Pond

on a Friday night, lacing up my skates

tight and stashing my boots safely

in the warming hut, safely stashed

among the other kids’ boots and shoes.

My ankles wobble, weak on these thin blades,

hand-me-down skates too small now

for my brother and pinching my toes, too,

wrapped in two pairs of woolen socks

for warmth, and to fill the space

my mother says I’ll grow into.

I pause briefly on the ice, testing

myself, unsteady but keeping my balance

to push off, gliding slowly, but lacking confidence,

too cautious, remembering, push

and glide and push again, glide, rhythmically

moving forward, crossing my skates, barely, 

on the corners as I’d seen the other kids do.

Fighting it still, I keep my arms from flailing,

keep my body relaxed, not standing bolt upright

and thrown backwards in my momentum,

preventing a spill and sprawling across the ice,

embarrassing myself among the others more elegant.

I was trying to look like I knew what I was doing,

experienced, smooth, and cool on my single blades,

hiding my fear and nervousness, my awkwardness.

Then that girl from History class, across the room,

skates by and smiles, pirouettes, and returns to join me,

and we skate slowly around and around Goddard’s,

sharing the ice and History class and each other.

Joining hands we skate now together into that night,

my confidence found in her hand held tightly in mine.

There were no double axels, spins or spirals,

no jumps at all, nor chasing a puck down

for a winning goal, any goal at all,

just circling the ice, holding hands and feeling

the warmth of another on a cold night,

a memory to recall on a cold night

in this new year, many new years since.