Ice Skating // Home

When I was home for the holidays, I’d take slow walks with my family dog, Cody. My favorite part of those walks was reaching a small pond in our neighborhood. It felt like something out of a postcard — barren trees towering over snow-coated water, the archetype of the winter I had been longing for while in California.

But as the days passed, the comfort of being home gave way to familiar patterns. The novelty wore off, and my family’s dysfunctional dynamics began to show again. I started to imagine the experience like skating on that pond: at first, gliding joyfully atop thick ice, but with each passing moment, the ice grew thinner and more precarious. Eventually, everything felt on the verge of collapse, descending into chaos.

This piece was born from that feeling. It’s imperfect, dark, and I don’t know what you would call it, but writing it helped me make sense of the past month.

A drawing I made with watercolor, pen, and colored pencil. [Image Description: A drawing of myself ice skating atop a frozen pond. The pond is surrounded by snow, plants, and barren trees. ]

The pond is breathtaking at first, a novelty of the Northeast. I watch the winter sun dance on the thick and glossy ice – a flat surface made dynamic. I shift my weight from my left foot to my right, making a satisfying crunch in the snow and mimicking the barren limbs of the oaks and maples, methodically swinging in the December breeze. My stomach flutters as I sit down to lace up my skates, and I wonder whether my muscles will remember how to move atop the stretching surface in front of me. I finish tying the daintiest bows my knobby fingers will allow and warily step onto the ice.

I’ve never seen a fridge like this. The way the fluorescent light bounces off yogurt and seltzer containers – its beauty is staggering, holy even. I let the cool air caress my cheeks as I witness the glory inside. I am filled with appreciation to even witness the magnificence of this cool, metal box, let alone indulge in its contents. I pull my eyes away from the fridge and toward my dog, Cody. I pet him like I’ve never felt his soft fur before, like I’m 12 years old and relishing in the high-pitched, barking, wet joy that is a puppy.

My dad assumes his spot on the big blue chair in front of the TV. He sits down gingerly, placing his drink carefully on the side table. I know that soon, he and the chair will merge, becoming a lump of fabric, snores, and lips stained with red wine. But it doesn’t disgust or infuriate me – not yet. I am simply in awe of his commitment to routine, his display of the tenacity of human habit. I watch the slow transformation of him and the chair as I pad upstairs toward my bedroom’s cool, blue light. I can imagine myself falling into this habit: gratitude, rest, the motions of a lazy winter.

The gritty layer of snow that once coated the bright ice is gone, swept away by gusts of December wind. I can tell the surface is thinner now by the way my skates slide on its sleek surface. The muscle memory finally kicks in. It feels like I’ve been on this pond my whole life – drawing circle after circle with the blades of my skates.

But the wind is picking up now, piercing through the down of my jacket and striking my core. I’m pushing my bare fingers deeper into the vast pockets of my jacket when my skate catches on the ice. My center of gravity shifts forward, and my freezing fingers swing through the air, searching in vain as I head toward the hard surface.

My bed forms a soft hug as I slip into my sheets – its cotton embrace holding and reassuring me as I read a book. I could have been sleeping for 15 minutes or 15 hours when I feel the pressure. The sheets that were once an embrace morph into a forceful arm, pushing me deeper into the hard mattress. I’m stuck in this bed, this room, kept there by two vaguely familiar men.

Suddenly, the sheets let me go – I gasp for air, making sense of my new autonomy. The room is my room, and the men were two I knew from high school. It’s strange how we always talk about haunted houses, but never haunted memories.

It’s morning now and I hear my parents before I see them – their disgruntled voices and a whirring blender like the alarm clock I never asked for. Somehow, my request that I had a rough sleep and don’t want to talk this morning is a personal affront to my father. God forbid his thoughts aren’t revered at every given moment by every given person under this roof. The fridge is still glowing – beautiful to behold, but its contents are speaking to me now, or am I speaking to me now? The voices tell me that if I withhold, close the fridge door, I could take back control of this situation, this house, the nightmares, this family. I ignore them and take out a yogurt, choke it down as tears fill my eyes and start to burn my nose. I look out the window at the breathtaking barren trees, searching for some sort of sign, omen, or mooring that will bring me back to safety.

I know I shouldn’t be here, yet I remain, planting down with my left skate then my right, like it’s the only movement I’ve ever known. Puddles of water dot the ice now, like sequins on a satin gown. The chill has stripped my fingers of all feeling as I slice through the cold air, fast enough that tears form at the corners of my eyes. I barrel toward the middle of the pond when I stumble forward again, bracing my wrists on the wet ice. Strangely, I don’t feel the pain of my chin hitting the hard surface, but I taste the metallic flavor of blood. For a moment, it’s nice to taste, to feel something, anything other than the bitter cold – but then I hear the crack, and the freezing water seeps into my down jacket.

I’ve been staring at the same wall for what feels like hours, hoping the white paint will somehow transmit to me the strength required to go through the expected holiday motions. I hear my father’s deep and lilted voice – already wet with alcohol, I’m sure – and I wish I had a sword and armor to protect me from what I’m sure will ensue. We get about three hours of peace until the yelling starts. I can’t remember what I said that prompted it, but each word pierces my skin all the same. I stand there and let him yell, watch the spit and words fall out of his mouth, because feeling this is better than feeling nothing.

I’m no longer listening, but his cruel words seem to coat my body and drip down my arms. While he is still shouting at me, I take the opportunity to stare at my father, my mother, my brother, and grieve the versions of them I spent so many hours creating in my mind – the ones that support me, that hold me when I cry, that truly see me.

I gingerly step away and scale the stairs toward my room. The once shiny fridge looks dull, and my bedroom doesn’t invite rest, but ghosts. I’m so tired, but I climb into bed expecting the nightmares now, thinking about how I should have left a week ago.