sundays

12:00PM. Sunday. Harman Park arena. Open skate. All ages welcome. Time at the rink feels like a vibrant weekful of forever. So many people. Weaving and winding in unending motion. Moments stretch easily into the next, then back around again. That seamless ebb and flow of bodies stitched together is tidelike. It never stops. It never slows. Yet, somehow, he is always one lap ahead and can suddenly appear beside then disappear as quick. I blame the distance on gravity or crowds or my skates resistance, but really that space is intentional. Functional. Noticeable. Culpable. We can only be light into one moment, then pushing off around eddies of afternoon skaters, chasing the next. It is inevitable- folding and falling and following all at the same time. This pattern, well known, let him fill years with this type of close up magic. All smiles, never leading, always moving. An hour on ice gives into numb feet barely held warm by movement. Hands let crisp laces fall stiff and raw to the floor. My eyes on the door as he reminds over his shoulder to carry my skates cautiously through the crowds. Strange, but, with my skates upside down, blades facing up, I figure I am the only one in danger. Between then and the parking lot I realize these noons always end to soon. My hope latches onto the next weekend and makes me feel better before the feeling worse sets in. Smoke unrolls around his head and is clipped into clouds as he ducks into the front seat of the car. 10 minutes of expectation later under a forgettable grey sky drive landmarked by the empty Tannery field, the closed up SPCA, the abandoned railroad- a theme itches my brain but I am too focused on donuts to give it anything other absent attention. Levelling out over a road swell, that lifts then compresses my hollow stomach, signals a warning. Here it comes. No surprise. This guy always takes the short edge of the curb into Lake Vista plaza- a soft chew and rim clang reminder that parking lots are safe once you make it past the concrete sentry. Though it meant nothing to me in 1983 now I avoid exits and entries altogether. It’s better sometimes when people wonder when I got here and where did I go.  Frustratingly bald wheels spin, as he tries to choose a spot to leave the Mazda in. There are no painted lines because light snow white washed the entire black top clean. We may be parked sideways and no one can prove us wrong. Backing up is a dad detail that still I have not mastered to this day and skip altogether when possible. It lights up primal parts of my brain. Synapses handshake, neurons connect. I start to relive my draft understanding of the art of escape. Prepping for leaving can be mechanical and not tied to threat or even feelings. I imagine the many times my mom watched him gather up in the twilighted morning to commute into work. I wonder how many times she sleeps without even noticing his escape. He is across the lot in two strides. Cupping his cigarette the protected ash falls into his hand. Snow hits his palm before the red hot reminder reaches his gaze. Sound, light, and warm air hits me. Its like he conjured this place filled with smells and sounds only found on Sundays. A nod, then another across the room, then one more down at me. Mugs appear. Watching him take a sip as soon as it hits the table transfixes me. What is coffee? Who is this guy? A guy who can draw smoke from one side of his mouth and drop jokes from the other. A guy who knows other guys by nods and waves and silent gestures of Sunday solidarity. He is easily into his second serving before the foam settles on my cocoa. As the ice flow of an hour ago drifts away I wonder if he sees himself in me. Did his tongue ever sting from cocoa sipped too quickly? We order donuts. His fritter seems an alien thing. An unworkable relation to my honey dip. An impossible future for me to enjoy.