Bono

“There must be a patch of ice somewhere in this town,” I said, pumping a bottle claiming to be shampoo and body wash all in one. “I wrote it down on the back of the yellow paper with the addresses on it. She’s having it downstairs somewhere. Sounds like a warehouse basement.”

While I perched on the edge of the bed and toweled my hair into unruly spikes, Lydia asked what people did at ice dancing parties. She might as well have been seeking etiquette guidance to a fertility ceremony in New Guinea.

We unzipped our bags and pulled out our warmest clothes. What had I been thinking packing a short-sleeved shirt covered in pineapples? I squeezed back into my boots, which had gone down a size since we left Melbourne.

There was no doubt my brain was on a jet lag merry-go-round. Since waking from the grave five minutes earlier, it was now craving coffee and adventure.

I decided watching a bunch of crazy New Yorkers ice dance would be the perfect opportunity for us to wear my hand-knitted ski caps. Before we left Australia, I’d been through another manic ski cap phase, knitting one for every person I love.

I hoped they would appreciate the devotion that went into each ski cap. In every row of stitches are gaps that are neither wool nor open air. Into those spaces silvery parts of myself were spun to protect and nurture the recipient.

With each year, I become more aware of the power in spaces around things. There is truth and magic in those gaps. I learn more about a person by examining the energy they exude than the words they say, or even their facial expressions. This must be how animals observe the world. No doubt our baby selves had the ability, too, until we succumbed to a world fraught with anxiety and mind-numbing technology. It’s in the spaces of so-called nothingness I’m able to connect with loved ones who have gone, to discover they’re always with me.

Anyway, it turned out not everyone I care about wanted to look like a homicidal sheep shearer. Besides, even I had to admit the mohair wool in some of my creations was scratchy. My list of potential ski cap recipients was downgraded to anyone who’d have one.

If nothing else, my ski caps were warm. I took a yellow one from my suitcase and tossed it at Lydia. It disappeared discreetly inside her coat pocket. She slid a flimsy headband from her backpack.

“You’ll freeze your ears off in that thing,” I said pulling my red ski cap over my ears. The effect was more hillbilly than hipster.

According to Michaela’s instructions, the ice rink was a ten-minute walk away. We went downstairs and were momentarily dumbstruck by the sea of humanity surging along the sidewalk outside. The pre-theater crowd, I guessed. Or maybe they were on their way to Times Square to do whatever people did there. Faces were bright and expectant as we heard excitement articulated in a dozen different tongues. Asian, European, young, or semi-decrepit, they were all bonded by the knowledge that tonight they were honorary citizens of the most vibrant city on Earth. Lydia and I dived into the tide, our breath forming white puffs in front of us.

As I accelerated to keep pace with the crowd, my worn-out labels seemed to peel away. Mother, grandmother, writer, and errant wife meant next to nothing in this swell. I was simply one human among millions, a single cell in a giant organism. It was exhilarating.

Chapter Five

AN INSPIRING GLIDE

A cat is more a mystery to unravel than a problem to be solved.

Trailing after Lydia down West 47th Street was giving me plenty of time to admire the back of her brown bob. Young people have no idea how lustrous their hair is, and how fleeting that glossy growth.

As we filed past gleaming storefronts, I was grateful she was showing no signs of irritation at having to slow down for me.

If she’d paused for a second, I’d have caught up and pointed out a glorious mural set in stone. Art Deco’s glamorous modernity took the planet by storm in that gush of optimism between the world wars. Though the style originated in France, New York is its spiritual home with the Chrysler Building as its high temple.

“Can’t be far now,” she said over her shoulder.

We turned a corner to confront an impressive row of national flags drooping from their poles. Above them, vertical lines of a building soared seventy stories into the night.

“Rockefeller Center,” I said to Lydia, who had stopped to admire the sight.

But she wasn’t listening. She was staring down at the plaza below us—and the most famous ice rink in the world.

There was no mistaking the gilded statue of Prometheus. The classically proportioned beauty has starred in countless movies, usually under the giant Christmas tree, where couples discover their love is true after all.