If I were an ice dancer, I would not remember the falls, nor recall the time I only did the double salchow instead of the triple --- no I would not remember those things
I would only remember how beautiful I looked in my skirts that flipped up and down around my perfectly carved legs or the beautiful color of the costume --- perhaps there would be sparkles on it
I would remember all the cheers of fans, their good wishes, the flowers thrown on the ice, the exhilarating pounding them- music of my piece
I would recall all the speed I had, the many twirls and how my partner held me up above his head and when I came back down we moved in perfect unison --- as if I had never left his side
Oh, if I were an ice dancer, even in a large competition, I’d remember the thrill and beauty of it, how my movements made people gasp in awe; I would remember the smoothness of the ice under me and the glorious swishing sound my skates made
For when it would be over, it could be like the other parts of my life --- and, the age-old question:
Why don't people remember the things I did well, why don't they talk to me about all the motions that clicked into place after years of practice?
Why can't they recall the fine joyous moments --- my skirts flying, my smile? --- how I made so many people happy, how I did almost all the exercises to perfection?
Why do they choose to talk about that one time I fell or the other competition when I did not land perfectly?
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