Thin Ice

 

Thin Ice

My daughter Lily asks why
I always buy plain chapstick
when she specifically asks for cherry—
Cherry, Dad!
I’m silent.

Carol’s birthday, her 13th,
ice skating party on the C&O Canal.
I’m 12.
Carol has scars from a cleft lip.
Speech a little weird.
Her smile rare, one-sided, a sideways heart.
Laughter unknown.

Carol races me.
She’s faster but stops with a shoosh.
I pass to the sound of creaking cracking
like frozen bolts of lightning and I’m in water
like electric shock. My legs go through,
my torso flat on a breaking slab. Flailing
for a grip I reach Carol’s hand.

Fingers touch, lock.
I clamber out saying “I’m okay
I’m not even cold” because I’m not yet
but my dad says “Take off your skates
and all that wet stuff. Undies, too.”
I strip, Carol watching.
I’ve just grown hair.

By now I’m shivery, jumping up and down.
From the trunk of the Chevy
my dad finds a raggedy towel I can wrap.
We all wish Carol a happy birthday.
Her mom and dad kiss her cheeks,
then my mom and dad kiss her forehead,
so (towel like a skirt) missing signs
not knowing rules, I kiss the shiny red
heart-mouth.

Her eyes fly open.
Mine never close.
Sticky chapstick.
Her open hand presses the front of my skirt.
Firm hand. My entire body snaps to attention.
Her lips warm. Blood rushes. A new era—
with scent of cherry.
“Happy birthday,” I say.
“Yeah,” Carol says.

Years later I realize
she was trying to push me away.
Be careful with boys is what I should say
but “Sorry,” is what I tell my daughter.
“Cherry,” she says. “Next time, try to remember.”

…..

First published in Sheila-Na-Gig. Thank you editor Hayley Mitchell Haugen.