I Love and Skating

I Love

I love you so much, Mom, that it sometimes hurts. Dark curls frame your face as I watch you apply your red lipstick. Somehow, you make red lipstick look natural. I like the shirtwaist cotton dresses that you wear in the summertime. You look so pretty. I love it when you read to me with your lyrical voice at the end of each day. And I love going downtown to Kiel Auditorium on Saturday afternoons with you for the young people’s symphony concerts.

We sit in the front row of the balcony, where we have a clear view of all the musicians. There are a lot of violins. The players rock forward and back in their chairs as their bows sail up, then dive back down. I wonder how they all know when it’s an up and when it's a down. There are only two women violinists. They sit in the back row. I don’t find any female trumpets, only men. They don’t play as often as the string instruments. But, when it’s almost their turn, they sit tall and get ready. They raise their trumpet a bit above their lap, and it looks like their fingers are practicing as they tap the keys. Finally, they lift the shiny trumpet up to their puckered lips and blow. Then what a sound! It zings its way above the string’s melody. I bet everyone in Kiel Auditorium is paying attention as the trumpets blare. Other brass instruments join. I like the one with a circle of tubes wrapped in a frisbee shape. Its bell is wider than the trumpet, the sound warmer, sunnier than the clear icy blast from the trumpets.

Everyone claps when the music stops, and the conductor lowers his arms. Intermission. You always let me have 7-Up and potato chips downstairs in the refreshment area. I look at the other kids and parents, all smiles, like us. After the concert, we exit through the huge theater doors. The cold winter air blasts us as though the whole brass section is playing at once. My gloved hand reaches for your gloved hand.

Music was important to your father. You and your sisters fell asleep each night hearing him play Beethoven sonatas on the piano. He passed his love of music on to you, and you passed it on to me. We walk to our car, but not in a hurry. Melodies are silently singing in each of our heads, and our footsteps find a common rhythm.

Skating

            Mom, do you remember taking me ice skating at Steinberg Rink in Forest Park? We wore warm jackets, hats, and gloves. As we laced up our skates, we laughed at the sight of our steamy breath in the cold afternoon air. You glided ahead of me like a graceful swan; your face lifted high in the cool air, your arms outstretched on both sides of your body. Your back leg rose to point straight out behind you. You were flying, smiling. But then, you lost your balance. Your outstretched leg wobbled and shot down as you swung your arms up and out in front of you. I heard you gasp and blurt out a howl-like noise. Oh no, Mom. You’re going to fall!

            Now you’re sprawled on the ice. Your long legs slide wide open in front of you, and your arms are limp at your sides. Why don't you get up, Mom? I feel so…what? What am I feeling? Scared? Not exactly. Sorry? Yes, I am sorry you fell, sorry that you are not steady on the ice and not steady in your moods. 

Moms shouldn't skate the way you skate. They shouldn't fall. A mom should move with ease beside her little girl. She should smile down at her daughter, clasping her small hand reassuringly. All those watching would feel happy and peaceful as mother and daughter glided in sync to the waltz music piped through speakers positioned around the rink.

I wish hard for this scene to be you and me. I want this mom with me. I seldom have her, though. I look at you there on the ice. Get up! But you don't get up. You don't brush yourself off and reassure me that you are okay. Instead, you stay on the ice, crying. You have the attention of everyone. I move away from you, out of the way, uncertain what to do. Then, a rink guard lends you a gloved hand and helps you up. I want to go home.