He said he wanted to do it himself. Ice skate, that is.
And that he didn’t need any help.
Which was when I hung back on the bench without skates and glanced up knowingly when I heard one knee slap the ice…
And then the other.
We’d been here forty seconds.
I watched as he wobbled to the railing and then hung there, his skates zipping forwards and backwards beneath him like steak knives.
And then I held my breath as he scissored away again, clutching the railing with half his weight
When walking proved useless,
He ran. Nowhere. Six inches at a time.
Until with flailing arms he found himself face up–or down–polishing the ice.
By the time he’d pointed to the foreign things on his feet and said,”I just want these off,” he’d ‘skated’ fifteen minutes.
Because he hadn’t needed any…heh.