In your dream, a blond-haired boy
who looks like your grandson
hands you a pair of roller blades.
Try ‘em, he says. You let go of your walker,
sit on the curb and strap them on.
In later life you’d said, I used to ice-skate.
Those look like fun.
If only I were young enough to try.

And in your dream, you do.
One hand behind your back,
the other oaring the air,
you rumble and glide over pavement,
the wind blowing back your wispy gray hair.

And you skate for all your life was worth –
past your grandsons, your dear departed wife,
past your daughter’s wedding,
past your metal shop smelling of hot steel and oil,
past a table of maps from the war,
past your saxophone on the chair amongst your bandmates,
who are white-tuxedoed and ready to play,
past your father’s milk cart, your mother’s infirmity,
past your baseball-uniformed brother,
who left too young and too soon.

In your very last dream,
you reunite with your buddies,
all bundled and red-cheeked, aged ten to twelve,
at the frozen pond.
Your skates have turned to silver,
and your loved ones line the banks,
marveling at your calligraphy on ice.

02/06/2012

Author's Note: First published in Fox Chase Review, January 2010.

Posted on 02/07/2012
Copyright © 2025 Bruce W Niedt