My feet are numb, my cheeks flushed, and I am flying. My brown curls are frosted with ice, and my heart drums to the rhythm of my skates, cut, cut, cutting into the smooth ice rink. The sky is black like leather. Stars are scattered throughout the sky, like God took a handful and tossed the sparkling light into the darkness. I see the moon, full, with a peacefully eerie orange and green-yellow glow in a ring around it. 
I move quickly across the ice. I like going fast. I feel like I'm getting somewhere. I feel so free, it's like flying with your feet on the ground. I can't really do any fancy tricks, but can swivel backwards and lift my feet off the ground-- stomp, slit, cut.
I am told my cheeks are pink like my sweatshirt, and my hair is iced, and I like myself like this, in the winter. There are times when we must think of oursleves as beautiful people. For me, this is one of those times. When I picture beautiful people, I see my mom and dad, their arms around each other's shoulders; my aunt, massaging someone's neck, her hands smooth and scented with a creamy lotion; my uncle, wearing a purple velvet suit jacket and hat tilted to the side, waltzing through the airport doors; and my grandparents smiling at us. There are many times when I take a mental picture, and label it, "Beautiful people." We need to see ourselves this way. And at this moment I do.
My mom turns on music and rolls down the window in our car, so that the jazz and piano echo in the night, and I swing my arms, gracefully, and tilt my head back, staring at the sky. I love that sky. It fills up the world, just like the music fills up the ice rink and the deserted neighborhood.
I move quickly across the ice. I like going fast. I feel like I'm getting somewhere. I feel so free, it's like flying with your feet on the ground. I can't really do any fancy tricks, but can swivel backwards and lift my feet off the ground-- stomp, slit, cut.
I am told my cheeks are pink like my sweatshirt, and my hair is iced, and I like myself like this, in the winter. There are times when we must think of oursleves as beautiful people. For me, this is one of those times. When I picture beautiful people, I see my mom and dad, their arms around each other's shoulders; my aunt, massaging someone's neck, her hands smooth and scented with a creamy lotion; my uncle, wearing a purple velvet suit jacket and hat tilted to the side, waltzing through the airport doors; and my grandparents smiling at us. There are many times when I take a mental picture, and label it, "Beautiful people." We need to see ourselves this way. And at this moment I do.
My mom turns on music and rolls down the window in our car, so that the jazz and piano echo in the night, and I swing my arms, gracefully, and tilt my head back, staring at the sky. I love that sky. It fills up the world, just like the music fills up the ice rink and the deserted neighborhood.
2 comments:
Micaela,
You are beautiful-- and it's not just your pretty eyes and hair and smile. You have a beautiful spirit, and imagination, and writing voice. I love that you notice the sky and the moon and the sound of the music and your skates. You are right, it's good to see beauty IN ourselves-- goodness and grace. I love that you notice beauty in nature, in others, and in yourself. I'm so glad you see and write.
Micaela,
I love it! I want to go ice skating with you, it looks like it was a fun time...
"Waltzing out of the airport doors." I like it. You're funny!
(I felt like the purple jacket and the word waltzing goes hand in hand.)
Love you Micaela,
Shawn
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