It was her father’s favorite station: polished marble, vaulted ceiling, windows straight from a mansion house. Just like the best library he ever went to, but never had time for until the end. By then he was too ill to go out.
He’d watched her figure skating, though; drove her without complaint, 5 a.m. prompt every Saturday, and evenings besides.
The marble in the station looks flowered underfoot like outdoor ice. She puts on her skates. She’ll carve him there. One glide at a time, controlled flight. Let him linger. Cut the lines deep enough that they’ll never buff them away.
Photo credit: Rex Boggs