It was that time of year again—summer. Days stretched on endlessly; most girls spent their days tanning and nights talking on the phone. However, my friend Laura and I raced around the lobby of the local ice rink, playfully chasing children. For the past four years of summer, Laura and I had volunteered at a figure skating camp designed for beginner figure skaters. “Gotcha!” we yelled as we grabbed them by their waists, while they squealed and tried their best to squirm away. Their shining eyes and flushed cheeks reflected the carefree essence of childhood.
We led the young campers outside; the warmth from the sun engulfed me, causing me to shiver with pleasure after spending the morning inside a freezing building. While Laura began the morning exercises with the children, I leaned against the brick wall of the building, studying her. The children followed her movements precisely; it was clear that she was a natural leader.
I remembered the first summer, seven years ago, when I had attended the same figure skating camp. For the first time, I made friends who saw me for more than just a quiet, studious girl. More importantly, that summer, my friendship with Laura had blossomed. As typical children with runaway imaginations, we found endless ways to entertain ourselves in the locker rooms assigned to us--swinging on the cool, metal bars that ran across the room or telling horror stories about the mysterious, red light that always shone on the wall of the locker room, even with the lights off. We chased each other senselessly in the dark, both of us laughing when one of us stumbled. By the end of the summer, we had unknowingly memorized the position of every crack in the wall and every bench in the room. In the most ordinary place, I had experienced the most exhilarating adventures.
We continued to grow up together after that summer. During my middle school years, it had been just the two of us on a clean, empty sheet of ice in the mornings. With the freedom to perform without judgment, I exuded confidence in every movement. I pictured the stands filled with people, cheering as I soared through various spins and jumps. Alone on the ice, my imagination roamed, and I lived in my fairytale as if it were reality.
My thoughts snapped back to the present as the morning activities ended; Laura led the children back inside while I picked up the equipment. By the time the equipment was returned to its proper place, the children were on the ice, skating. Walking down a narrow hallway, I paused by the locker room where Laura and I had spent so many summers before. For some unexplainable reason, I felt compelled to enter. Without turning on the lights, I stepped into the shadowy room.
The same, dank smell of sweat and dirt permeated the air like it had countless summers ago. I brushed my hand against the rough, uneven wall, missing its familiarity. The bars, now rusting, still hung from the walls. However, as I continued examining the room, I was momentarily confused when I noticed that what had once been a hallway was now blocked by a brick wall. I laid my cheek against the wall and felt a wave of grief wash over me. Aspects of the rink were changing, erasing the memories and places that had shaped my childhood. I wanted proof of my past so badly—I needed my past to show me that my home was here, and the wall seemed to dictate the impossibility of it all. With a sinking feeling in my heart, I found myself weeping against the wall. Moments later, I felt a hand press upon my back. Blinking back tears, I recognized that it was Laura. She pulled me close, and my head sank into her shoulder.
Realization hit me hard. Even though my home was changing, Laura would remain the same—a dependable friend who would always remind me of my past and influence me in my future. Like two spools of thread, our lives had been woven by destiny into a tapestry that told our two individual stories as one. Our intertwined histories traced back to that first summers when my life truly began, and I would always find a part of myself embodied within her.
We heard footsteps echoing outside the door. The campers were searching for us, so I nodded to Laura when she asked if she could go. I stayed for a few minutes longer in the unlit room, saying goodbye to the concrete remnants of my past. Then, taking a deep breath, I opened the door and stepped out into the light.
