I remember the yellow laces and the way they tucked in, just below the pink snaps, cradling my feet in a cocoon of plastic, tying my body to the wheels that made even flying seem possible. They were rollerblades. They were my first. At age 8, I had decided that what I needed more than anything else were these, the ones from the sporting good store. I saved my money hard, all those crumpled dollar bills stuck in a tin till I could save those shoes from their cardboard box on the walls of anonimity. In reality, they were rescuing me.
I was the girl with the gangly legs, ready for adventure, trying to find her place. I wanted the impossible. That summer, wheels became wings and nothing seemed too far.
Well, one day, I put those blades away, when the weather left notes of frozen warnings. I went indoors. I pushed my nose again chilled glass. It was winter. Over the years, the seasons changed, and I grew and outgrew. I put on other shoes with height, trying to reach some sort of new horizon. I’d outgrown the counter sink and it’s red stool. Wheels seemed impractical, illogical, and maybe even dangerous.
I called my mom last year asking about those long lost friends. I had a cul-de-sac. I wanted to brush them off. But, like so many things, they were gone, traded in for space and forgotten. Since then, I have a corner dedicated to hoping for return, to be again taken by the wings of two rollerblades and a belief in the impossible.