Worn glass, track marks and fault lines from me and the clumsy neighborhood new born figure-skaters. Chilled air, like the inside of a fridge, no breeze a strange rapturous comfort envelops us all. Wild hairsprayed hair sticking out of plush felt headbands like unlit torches or bundles of hay. Laughter and squeals echo off the pines and hit us as we wobble and fall down, trying to find our sea legs. The hissing and scraping of dull metal blades on the impenetrable pissed off water molecules huddling together tightly for warmth like a spartan phalanx on pluto. Clear winter skies, fresh and unbreathed air filters in, occasional hints of floral perfume, stinging sweet hairspray, and earthy crystal scent of freshly shaved ice. My mom and her friends show off their long dormant ice skating abilities and my brother and I struggle to balance. Unsteady legs, wobbling, buckling, a bridge during an earthquake, a puppy trying to run mid puberty or a tap dancer with schizophrenia. We laughed and loved the simple pleasures of the phase changing of water, the neighborhood all were kids that day on the frozen pond in Drum Point.