The three big years.
1993: I was seven years old, so Meghan must’ve been nine. My dad took us to an open skate somewhere up in Cleveland. We rented shitty old hockey skates attached to butter-knife blades and skated, skated, skated. Dad showed us how to do a hockey stop. He demonstrated the wide c-cuts of backwards skating. He told us to bend our knees, to keep our chests and heads up, to use our powerful thighs, to swing our arms forward but not side-to-side. We were going to be hockey players, he said. And we were.
2004: I was 18 years old and heading off to college the next day. My dad helped me pack up my things while my friends loitered on the sidewalk, waiting for a chance to say goodbye. My mom pulled her white minivan into the driveway, turned off the ignition and stomped into the house. She never looked at me, much less spoke to me. The next morning, my dad drove me to Erie on his own. I didn’t see my mother again until 2010.
2009: My college boyfriend and I broke up in January. I spent the remainder of the year plotting my way back into his heart. I ended up with a prescription for Prozac and a shiny new therapist. Then, finally, finally, I got my shit together.
I am participating in a month-long writing challenge during February, so you lucky bastards get to enjoy a daily post until the end of the month!