When you grow up wearing figure skateswith only brief interludes of not owning your own pair that whole flying from the nest analogy doesn't translate so well. I've always related more to the rink of life in which you orbit round and around, clinging to the walls or an outstretched mitten but slowly building confidence and pushing out toward the center. Learning to skate, confidence builds by looking out ahead but also looking out for others. We're all supposed to be headed in the same direction Still, beware the wrong way skaters, the hockey punks. Collision is inevitable. There is no free fall on the ice; there are no boundless heights. Gravity is turned on and flight is only for the sure, the trained Because, after all, we're all still landing on a thin blade of metal. Precarious. The sound of the rink is always some muffled eighties song scraping blades cutting through Tears for Fears. Offers to couple skate Stale popcorn the Zamboni interlude. It's all object lesson. I love the rink.

*** Thank you, Loverpants, for letting me punch out for my recent solo skates. I would say that I imagine us couple skating while I am out there, but that is kind of hokey, and I am just trying not to get my hands skated over by hockey punks.