The last time I skated, I fell spectacularly, which set off an odd chain of events, starting with a tiny blue bruise and culminating in nearly missing an airplane. My friend wore a flippy skirt and red cape and white fur muff and was tormented on the subway even though she kept repeating, fake, fake, fake.
I would like it to snow.
It’s too warm. I don’t know what it would mean, snow. The nickname of an old friend, gone. The event I swore, blithely, that will not happen this winter until something else. The thing that sticks to the windows and makes a patter sound, you say.
I lived in California, and I don’t know winter anymore.
I’m ready, though.
From an introduction to an E. Nesbit book, Edward Eager cited by Joan Lowery Nixon:
There are lucky people who never lose the gift of seeing the world as a child sees it, a magic place where anything can happen next minute and delightful and unexpected things constantly do. Of such, among those of us who try to write for children, is the kingdom of Heaven.
From poet Rebecca Loudon’s blog:
I would say that this day makes me feel like I'm six years old, but I feel like that most of the time.
I gasped aloud in recognition, but I do that a lot.
Today I wrote
My wrists burn.
I would like to make it up to 10,000, in part so I could run through the streets like Dickens, shouting, I wrote 10,000 words today! I wrote 10,000 words today! loudly at strangers.
In truth, I would whisper it only to myself in my head, head down.