My mother takes me to St. Clair Shores on a pale spring morning when I am thirteen years old. She has found a coach there, someone better than Ben, who sometimes shows up to my lessons without skates, eyes shot with red. Skating was my own choice, after my mother told me I needed to be afraid of fewer things. She was a gymnastics coach in China, now a seamstress, stitching together fabric instead of sinew. I know how she wanted me to choose, but I was proud, even then, and had started to bring home medals from skating competitions.
As we drive across the peninsula, it is still early enough to see the moon hang from the edge of the sky. I imagine it rolling softly onto the willows across the lake, or into the water with a quiet splash. If I am to believe the tale of the goddess who shares my name, the moon will do neither of those things and Selene will soon arrive to meet her ageless lover.
After opening the car windows briefly to pay the bridge toll, all I have to embrace is the cold. It lays its hand across my cheek, the… Read more »