One of my sons has a hockey skating lesson on Wednesdays. We head over a little after 5 and drive up the spiral ramp to the eighth floor of a parking garage to find our local iceplex. The baby and I watch the lesson from above, and the glass wall overlooking the rink has the same meditative quality as an aquarium. Skaters in multi-colored skirts and tights, helmets and gloves, trench coats, legwarmers, and hats look like fish swimming around and around a fish bowl. The glass masks any noise the skaters might make, as if the mute button has been pressed on the television.
The little one always watches for a few minutes. Then he prefers to travel across the wide expanse of floor where rug turns to concrete, and he asks me to hold him in front of the window to the outdoors. This window, which also muffles any noise from the other side, shows tiny cars below. Their red brake lights shine in the night as they stop and go. Windows in the office buildings and high-rise apartments glow. And the moon, waxing gibbous, a perfect, yellow disk in the sky, has the grace and wisdom of a grandmother. The baby's eyes and mine take it in.
There is a lot of beauty in my everyday, but it is the silent wonder of this beauty that I enjoyed the most.
Leah - a beautiful slice. I feel a part of the protected environment that you describe so well. I especially like your description of the moon with the grace and wisdom of a grandmother. Makes me think of my kids favorite book - Grandfather Twilight. Nice!
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