I watched then intently, trying to let my mind grasp every movement they made. I mentally noted each bend, twist, and shiver they transmitted to the ice.
I wondered if they skated for the love of feeling content in who they were, or, like so many before them, the complications of competition.
More than anything I wanted, and still want, to rejoin the ice, to feel myself push across the reflections of the walls around me, and feel like i could float away.
Reality regained me. I was back, behind the clear windows of the rink, watching nine-year-olds skate circles with complicated steps and jumps breaking up cycles of familiarity.

Daydreams of my past so often consume me, making me forget of my age, of my health, of my future or present. All I see during those moments are images of applauding crowds and gashes into the ice where my skates felt like they had just been.
Then I would remember I am now an old woman. I would remember how I had skated until I couldn't anymore, even after competition.
My company would not notice that I had left them for a moment to dream. To them I seemed always in a daze. They knew only half what I used to about skating, but they let me remember in peace, and I let them dream on their own.