“Faith! Faith! Look, I can turn on one foot now! Faith, look!”
I smile at my four year old cousin, Candie, who is just getting to grips with ice skating. It’s December. It’s cold. It’s snowing. But we’re having fun, and that’s all that matters.
I watch her execute a cute, if a little wobbly, pirouette and finish in a “Ta-da!” pose before collapsing into giggles. I can’t help but join in. I skate over and pick her up, whirling her round in my arms. She laughs and so do I. We are so close. I put her down and she clings onto me with her tight clasp. I sigh and pick her up again, and take her over to her mother, Sarah, who helps her take off her skates. She smiles and thanks me for such a wonderful day.
I’m about to wave Candie goodbye before she starts crying, and decides that she won’t stop until I pick her up and skate all the way round the rink with her again, in true little kid style. I have to oblige and lovingly take her into my arms, step onto the rink and skate. In the corner of my eye I watch her cute little face twitch into a broad grin. She attempts to clamber up my shoulders to gain a higher position. She manages to get her feet onto my shoulders and then tries to stand up, like she’s seen on television. I panic and grip tight onto her. She wails in disappointment and I miss my footing, losing my balance. Candie’s wail turns into a cry of alarm as I find myself tumbling to the ground. My knees make contact with the ice and it cracks. Candie screams. Everything goes black.
