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Nemeah grew up on skates. I didn’t. They can go backward and forward, and spin, and make three or four laps to my one. They pull me away from the wall, they hold my hands and tell me to breathe, their own breath rising in clouds. A little more confident, a little more steady on my own, they let go of me and skate off, playful taunting in their wake. They spin, braids whipping the air. I hobble around the rink in cautious circles. I am content to watch them, to commit them to memory. I want to find all the things that make them feel this way.