Fallen

I tighten my skates and step out onto the pavement. I swallow heavily. I haven't felt so afraid in years.

I skate a few meters away from my dad. My muscles bend perfectly, as if falling into sync with my memory. I can recall why I love to skate so much: the feeling of moving unhindered, of straining my muscles without seeming to. It's the feeling of flying that comes in a dream.

"Vamos, Anita," my dad says excitedly. "¿Quieres ir alrededor de todo el parque?*"

My memories say yes. My fear says no. I scold myself. Stop freaking out. Stop worrying. You won't lose control.

You won't fall.

But as I follow my dad, the concrete rushing away beneath me, we reach a little hill. And at the top, I can feel my heart starting to pound. Why can't a road go upwards forever? Why does it always have to fall?

My skates are newer than my dad's. They start to race, catching up to him on his old, friction-prone wheels.

I know how to do this, I tell myself. I won't lose control.

But the skates only go faster and faster. My heart races. My stomach starts to tighten. I may not lose control of my skates, but I lose control of my breathing.

I turn onto the grass and slow immediately.

I don't want to turn back onto the road.

Every downhill goes up again, I insist.

But my heart won't stop racing. My stomach tightens further. I glance at my dad, who's waiting for me up ahead.

"Estás un poco nerviosa hoy," he tells me, not unkindly, when I catch up. "Tu enfermedad te ha hecho tímida. Solo agáchate, y vas a estar bien.**"

I nod. I know. I know I won't fall.

So why am I so afraid?

_____

*Vamos... parque: Come on, Anita! Do you want to go all the way around the park? (-ita is a diminutive suffix, and here, added to the end of Anne as a nickname, it basically comes out as "Annie.")

**Estás... bien: You're a little nervous today. Your illness has made you timid. Just bend your knees, and you'll be okay.