Frozen

Flash
Krishan Coupland


I watch you skate.

I could watch you skate for hours, for days, because you’re so beautiful. It’s like seeing you fly, you do it so effortlessly. And you’re smiling—tiny white teeth—I haven’t seen you smile for a long time.

The other children on the rink don’t have half the grace and poise and easy momentum you do. They’re clumsy and worthless—but you… you’re perfect, and you don’t even know it. Whenever I tell you how good you are you smile and giggle and shrug. But you are; you’re perfect.

My child, my beautiful child, you’re better than all the others.

You complete another flawless circuit. I watch you step off the ice and hobble forward, the blades of your skates click-clacking on the concrete. You’re smiling still as you seek me out, waiting in the stands.

I reach toward you—because for a second I’ve allowed myself to believe that you’re real and whole and there again—I reach for you.

But my fingers meet only static charged glass—and it’s the cameraman, the me from seven years ago, who holds you and takes you home and casually wastes away the seconds and hours and weeks he has left with you.
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Krishan Coupland is a student living in Southampton. Currently he is studying for a career in medicine—or something else. He hasn’t really decided yet. He has written for most of his life as a hobby. E-mail: coupk[at]hotmail.co.uk.