Beneath the Ice

Carys Li

I had never seen my mom react this way.

Through tears and a blurred vision,

I evaded the plastic water bottle

flying in the direction of my leg.

The muffled sound of the bottle hitting the carpeted floor,

echoed her frustration.

The sky a pitch black, 

my mom would wake up to drive me to the rink. 

But all along, lecturing me.

“Everyone’s afraid.

If you’re not even jumping, how can you improve?”

But all I remember was jumping 

– a double rotation – then a landing 

that felt wrong. A burning pain radiated

into the arch of my foot made my knees crumble. 

My hands tingled upon the impact 

of hitting the ice; a million needles stinging me. 

My body was frozen numb, but my ankle was on fire. 

For two weeks, I was to sit 

at the side of the rink, listening to the hum of the zamboni 

as it surfaced off layers of the ice.

For two weeks, I was to stare 

at my cast, while people danced 

and twirled to the melody of their music. 

How could I wait two weeks when I had traveled 

all the way across the world just to skate? 

So one week in, I laced my skates up, 

preparing for the war that lay ahead,

between 

me and the ice. 

I swung my arms back.

Weight on my toe-pick, I took off – only

for a vision of me slamming

onto the ice penetrate my thoughts,

popping my jump. One session 

blurred into days. While others jumped, 

I glided around aimlessly.

I urged my body to rotate, 

instead, my mind was spinning. 

The sky a pitch black, 

my mom would stay up to drive me home. 

But all along, lecturing me.

“You’re wasting your potential.”

“You’re not even trying.”

So out of desperation I jumped.

I rotated, and fell.

I stared at the rough surface 

beneath me, noticing for the first time that

it was not completely white, but blemished with gray. 

Freckled gray, from the occasional water droplet 

dripping from the air conditioner. 

Lines of gray, from the dirt on the ground settling 

into the blades of the skates, staining the ice.

I stared at my gloves, covered in traces of ice, waiting 

for the cold to send a chill up my spine. But

nothing – no burning sensation, no pain.

“See? You just need to trust yourself!”

I felt a rush of adrenaline as I brushed the snow off my pants 

and pushed off the edge of my blade.

I jumped, again and again, 

leaving dents the size of my toe picks, 

carving edges like that of cursive onto the surface of the ice.

The dull gray was gone, 

replaced by a smile

that lit up on my mom’s face at that moment. 

A vibrant yellow,

that followed me from 6am to 11pm. 

The yellow coffee-filled mug her hands wrapped around on early mornings,

the yellow scarf wrapped around her shoulders on chilly nights.