by Anshi Purohit (she/her)
Sophomore, Richard Montgomery High School
🥇1st, 2023-24 Winter Writing Contest
A capsule of old memories preserves our wings but distances them from our disheveled bodies.
Once, we wavered before stepping onto ice, grasping slippery railings sculpted to distance the rink from our towering city center. We couldn’t wrap our heads around the freeze, or the possibility of sacrificing flight to keep it safe for the future.
Today, we hold hands and turn to one another, frost dusting her long lashes. I savor Aria’s nervous smile like the essence of a city trying to swallow us whole. “This isn’t so bad.”
Nobody we know will be here for a while. Until the last school bell rings and those dozen skater kids lug their bags and instruments down the few blocks leading to the outdoor rink’s pay stand, we have all the privacy we could ask for. While waiting for our skates, I watch a cloud of vapor distend from my breath. I don’t tell her how long it took to convince my parents to let me come while I lace up her shoes and lean into her shoulder. We abandon our bags and phones on a
bench with no regard to their future whereabouts as I relearn how to smile.
The smile fades from my friend’s face as she slips at first contact with the ice, her skates giving out from beneath her crooked posture when she skids. Breath rushes from my lungs and I slide over to her. My braid whips across my left shoulder when I kneel next to her in the center of the rink.
To the disdain of the toddlers skating around with those plastic penguins to steady their wild contortions, we sit like preserved memories, like prehistoric exhibits. I haven’t skated in a while, and the cold is almost intimate with the pastel gray skies and cobblestone pavement surrounding the city square: we are melting our miniature ice palace.
“I hate gravity,” my childhood friend sputters, her lips chapped at the edges.“I didn’t want to do this anyway, Ina.” Her navy blue fleece is soaked through, and I almost laugh out loud because when we were younger, she was the one who held my hand and guided me across
the ice. She was the one in love with gravity.
Aria has close-cropped auburn hair and chestnut skin to compliment her nervous, clouded blue eyes. Her short stature makes her look like a little flower to safeguard under the sun. And
yet, she is a sunflower seed; they leave a gritty, powerful sort of aftertaste in the back of your mouth.
“Yes, you do. Just wait. Just follow me.” This was our idea. We made a conscious decision, and now we are here because the city doesn’t wait to run on our hours. We always play catch up, and I am now a stranger in my natural habitat. “Try gliding instead of stepping, Aria.”
The city smells like hidden universes: one whole, millions of parts. I don’t share her panoramic views of the world; I see things in one dimension, and it is a crippling curse.
How did I arrive here, surrounded by people I love in a place I cherish more than anywhere the world’s thought spirals will lead me toward? I was not expected to get this far.
As I guide her across the ice, her arms pressed against my waist and eyes shut against the terrors of a constant world, I catch my reflection in a thrift shop window. Short, raven curls bounce from my shoulders, and my maroon sweatshirt is wet from Aria’s tight embrace.
My skates make me look taller than I seem and more confident than I feel. I crack the pressure building at the crook of my neck and ease into the blades on the ice because I am cutting through something I can control.
“I’m learning how to glide!” Aria triumphs like a trilling bird until she notices the holes in her wings. “Ina, I’m going to fall.” Of course, I catch her in a sweeping motion, our bodies dipped at the perfect angle. We are sixteen and not good enough for the world, but we hold onto our childhood wonder as if it has never abandoned us.
Take the time to find it, our city marvels.
We search within our clumsy grace and my forced awkwardness, exploring how we fit together in this small space crammed with people flocking to escape their world. In slow, directional motions, we begin to conform.
I watch Aria bloom into herself with the steadiness of a wizened mentor, my fingers unlacing from their hold on her wrist when she wants to sweep the ice from her skates and call out for freedom. The few people ascending the steps point to her and gush with praise as she crouches and glides.
Aria always comes back to me, though. Me, Ina, with my imperfect concentric circles and mundane life revolving around school and the suburbs. She is the ray outside my window waiting for me to release my chokehold over routine.
She whispers into my ear as she glides on ice. “Thank you for bringing me here.”
When I wobble and she brings me to the center, our movements are in synchrony.