Beyond the Horizon

The sky shone under my feet. I glided through the clouds, leaving them a little blotchier, inching warily across the scratched surface. The sun looked a little worse for wear as it sat trapped under the ice, bobbing along with the lazy flow of water. 

Small town, big day, my mother said as she plaited my hair. I had clutched my skates under my arms, feeling their worn-out leather rub off on my underarms. She patted my shoulder, grunting as she hoisted herself up higher on her pillows. I reached out to steady her. Slowly, I said, and she raised her hand to stop my words. Her cheeks were unrecognizably sunken, but her eyes were as hard as ever when they pierced mine. Her hand clutched my arm while her fingers traced along the blades of her old skates. Her gaze lingered on them, wistful and regretful, as if she wasn’t sure whether to curse them or thank them. 

I’ll be listening, Mila, she had warned, pointing to the cackling radio. I nodded, smiling. I bent and pressed my lips lightly to her forehead. She coughed, the bed protesting on weak rusty hinges. Her papery skin lingered on me and I left, eyes fixed on the peeling fabric, the groaning fan and the croaking radio.

I spread out my arms. Left, right, left, right. I closed my eyes and listened to the wind and the words floating within. Bend knees, lean forward, push off. My mother’s soft voice reverberated through the still the winter air, accompanied by the rasping blare of the loudspeaker announcing the next competitors. 

Mila.

My name rang through the air. The heavy Russian accent lingered on it, reminding me of the way my mother used to yell for me. Come Mila, she always hollered, beckoning from the doorway. Wrapped in her fraying old shawl, I would rush into her arms and have her carry me to the frozen lake, nestled in amidst the trees. Like a mirror it captured the vast blue sky onto one tiny surface, framed by curls of bushes that stuck out their bare limbs, like wannabe skaters. Standing in the middle, my hands tight in my mother’s, she would twirl me around effortlessly. It would be just the two of us.

I gasped, suddenly flailing as the ground drew closer and smacked me in the face. I lifted my head up, numb from the ice, distantly hearing sniggering laughter. The girls skated off, grinding their skates close to my ears. I flinched.

Final call for Mila. I scrambled up, hastily making my way to the starting line etched ruggedly with a knife into the ice. 

Late again, I heard someone whisper. Just like her mother, always late. Yes, I remember. Anna, they called. Anna, Anna, Anna. Yet she wasn’t there. I had waited, perched on the lowest branch of the naked tree, craning my neck forward to catch a glimpse of her golden locks. The mayor had given up, blasting the horn with an inaudible sigh. Wait for her, I screamed. He didn’t hear me. Only at last, when the skaters were halfway across the lake did she turn up, her hair wrestled out of the hairband, her work skirt binding her legs. She said something to him, and I saw her face harden as he shook his head. She turned to me, and left without a word. 

That day was grey. The heart of the winter, when the cold stabbed into the oldest crevices of the most joy-filled hearts. When my mother threw down her skates into the deepest box in the attic and never let the sun shine on them again. The frost had grown and spread, seeping into its blades and leather, until the day I had stumbled upon them.

I wedged the blades into the familiar groove that my mother had taught me to carve out many winters ago. 

The mayor raised his weathered hand, trembling, into the air. The horn was momentarily silhouetted against the sun, eclipsed into a dark shadow. I squinted. 

It blasted a shrill, electrifying note into the sky, shaking what leaves remained on the bare branches.

One shove and I was ahead of all others in our desperate bid for the finish line. My arms swung from side to side with dizzying repetitiveness and my skates barely touched the ground before flying off again. Left and right, there were nobody around me. Just like those nights, when I was alone, flying across the mirrored sky on wings of metal, leaning forward, further, further…

I sucked in a breath, teetering on the edge of the unthinkable. For a tiny space in time, I was suspended, then fate shoved me with its ice cold fingers and I keeled forward. My hands, still in motion, thrust out and barely saved my nose. I flew a good meter forward before spinning into a roll, once, twice then stopped with my cheek planted on the ice, my ankle in a horrifyingly wrong angle. 

All the air left me in one anguish roar, drowned out by the rattling skaters that materialized beside me and then were gone again. 

I would rather die by a thousand cuts. Not like this. Not by words blaring in a cold, empty hospital room, describing a girl and her failures. Not by her empty eyes, dry of tears because they’d all been shed for her past, and none were meant for her only pride. Not by broken dreams of a shell of a woman.

Golden threads of sunlight wove into hair, white clouds merged into a youthful face, one I hadn’t seen in years. My mother smiled, her hands reaching out. It’s alright, child. Just get up, I’m proud of you.

I was six again, on my knees with my shattered dreams on the ice. She gathered them up in her arms and warmed them, piecing them back into something tangible. Chase your dreams, she said, pulling me up and pointing to the horizon. Don’t end up like me. Just keep getting up and you’ll get there someday. 

 I slid my hand into hers and felt her old strength creep into me. The pain melted. Everything melted away, the shouting, the laughing. The only thing in front of me was the horizon, where my dreams were still waiting for me. 

Chase them, one painful step by another.

Afterwards, I wondered how I had ever made that distance on a sprained ankle. Did I ever catch those dreams? I would say yes. No matter how long I took, they waited. They waited until I stepped on a podium and raised a medal for my mother to see.

The window she opened for me blew in thick hazes of snow. Bracing the winds, the storm, I stepped through.