As the sun sets over the anthill of rush hour on Snelling, I listen to the crisp shhh of my skates over the ice. I am learning this movement slowly: how to bend my knees and push myself forward, how to cross one foot over the other as I turn, again and again, in the snowy ring I am creating.
How to breathe in Minnesota February, and breathe out the comfort of mittens and black tea and this, my blades cutting softly into the cold.
As I circle, I am beginning to understand what home is–not the place I spoke my first words and learned to sew and kissed my first boyfriend. The place where my collection of poetry and prose mixes with my husband’s classics and language textbooks.
So this movement I must learn also: how to fold his laundry neatly in thirds, how to count the hours as I wait for him, how to speak to him with arms and eyes and lips.