I am five or six. I am opening a gift; it is my birthday. I tear off the wrapping and toss it aside.

Say cheese, says a woman. Another woman who looks like her, but older and wrinkled, stands behind her. She wears a fudge-smeared apron. She waggles her tongue at me and flops her fingers behind her ears, making a silly face.

I smile at them both.

The flash of a camera.

I pull out the ice skates. They’re white with pink laces, for a figure skater. I can’t wait until after I open the rest of my gifts. (There is a large stack of them on the wooden table where I sit.) I slip on the skates right away. I teeter to the door, and the older woman shakes her head at the scratches my blades leave on the floor.

I slide down the narrow pond-bank on my rear. The snow is cold through my jeans. I didn’t stop to put a snowsuit on. Then I am on the ice; I am skating, faster and faster, and the wind is hitting my cheeks in sharp painful gusts. I laugh; I am freer than ever before. I slip and I fall; I get up and do it again. I try turns and jumps. I am becoming bolder. I can’t get enough of this feeling.

I slip and fall again. This time, the blade of my skate catches in a rut when I go down, and my ankle is twisted. I feel strong arms lift me up. They carry me back up the bank to the house, where I am deposited on a sofa in front of a fireplace. The younger woman wraps my ankle with thick gauze, brings me hot tea with milk and sugar. I am allowed to open the rest of my presents: a carousel music box, a silver charm bracelet. I love coming here; this place is peaceful, happy.

I want it, this memory and all the rest, despite the way it hurts.