Fragility: Virginia Schnurr

Fragility
by Virginia Schnurr

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My therapist reminds me
there are four emotions:
rage, fear, euphoria—

Skating on thin ice,
I can’t recall the fourth.
Compassion, love, sorrow?

I should borrow a drill to bore
into this ice. Is it thick enough
to skate?

Grinning, my husband pushes
our four-year-old into the middle of the pond.
“You won’t learn skating by sitting on the bank.”

He teaches her to shoot the duck,
move backward, glide like a hockey player.

I teach her to make delicate patterns.
To check the ice.
Make promises about the thickness.

Imagine being the first woman skater
venturing out, ice be damned.
Why does she go?
Maybe her child is sick?
Her husband coughs blood?
Her dog is lost?

She hurries;
the ice cracks.
She apologizes
for her weight.

Every winter, I use the ice path
to cross Amethyst Brook. 
Ignoring the bridges, testing myself, fate.

Passing that first skater,
reaching out to her
as she rushes by, intent upon
her baby, her husband, her dog.

When I hear the ice break,
I’ll swim to her
and we’ll plan an afternoon
of skating for no reason,
ice be damned.