What happens when we stop pursuing our dreams?
The rink was filled with older people, ok old people gliding in a fog of nostalgia and memory. One man spins, in faded-blue denim jeans and baseball cap, tongue sticking out nearly touching his nose or in some other gesture that matches the grin, the lopsided, pleased grin stretching his face in to a mask of history. He spins in a uniquely feminine manner, hands on hips, bones poking outwards, knees bent (or appearing to be) twirling in what would be graceful arcs, if they were.
Another man, in baby blue jeans and short sleeve shirts, unremarkable save his Leif Erickson (or what’s his name, the curly-haired, cutie from the 70s). Time is gliding, pointed, pointedly around the ice in long arms, long legs and fine scissor glides. It is wound in mounds of unruly curls, springy and wound loosely on the head of an aging skater.