Talia’s Quietest Lap — Before the bakery chimney coughed its first cinnamon smoke, Talia tied her skates beside the frozen pond and whispered her challenge: one whole lap without a scrape. Read the full story →
Before the bakery chimney coughed its first cinnamon smoke, Talia tied her skates beside the frozen pond and whispered her challenge: one whole lap without a scrape. The ice shone blue in the early light, smooth as a spoon. She pushed off softly, swish, swish, past the bent reeds and sleeping pines, keeping her arms close so even her coat buttons would not click.
Halfway around, a thin rasp broke the hush. Near the far bank, the pond’s old warning sign had tipped loose, its nail scratching the ice whenever the wind nudged it. If the younger children came later, they would skate straight toward the cracked patch beyond it. Talia stopped. Fixing it meant crossing bumpy ice and giving up her silent lap. Her mitten stuck to the cold metal as she pressed the sign upright and wedged her own holly ribbon tight around the post. “Stay,” she breathed.
On the way back, her blades chattered over every ridge. No one clapped. No one even saw. But when she reached her spot, the pond lay safer, the pines smelled bright with snow, and her skates carried a little holly where the ribbon had brushed them. Next time you see those laces by the ice, listen for the quietest lap that was never quiet at all.
