What journeys did you have to take, to say, “This is who I am, this is what I love to do, and I don’t care who is watching?”

Michali leans forward against the barrier, relishing the blast of cold air on her face after the heat wave outside. It’s the hottest summer Jerusalem has seen in years, with record-breaking temperatures, and honestly, nobody is impressed. Or amused.

Bless the municipality for setting up an ice-skating rink in the Old Train Station.

Michali closes her eyes, breathing it all in. The cold reminds her of the Chanukah they spent at Bubby Gold’s in Monsey, with the wet slushy air and velvety hot chocolate and sledding in the backyard.

“Michali! Michali! Look at me!”

She opens her eyes, smiles at the little boys tottering past her, holding on to assistance penguins. Her little brothers are cuties.

Then she looks around for Eliyahu. He’s there, whizzing past, light on his feet, the way he does everything else in life: well, and confidently. Her older brother waves at her, and she thinks about telling him to look out for the littles, but she already knows: Eliyahu will slow down when Eliyahu wants to slow down and not a moment sooner.

Two skaters collide and she whirls around, checking for Reuven and Pinchas. They’re fine, heads down, feet still rising clumsily. Eliyahu’s fine, too, it’s two Arab boys who are creating the chaos.

She rolls her eyes, and is about to turn away when she sees him.

He’s not skating. He’s… dancing. She stays, watching him.

His peyos fly past his shoulders as he pirouettes gently, arms twirling above his head.

A figure-skating chassid.

Eliyahu skates by, opens his eyes wide in a “can you believe this guy” look.

She giggles, but honestly, she’s transfixed.

Spin, spin, turn, leg outstretched, hands slice the air elegantly.

She wonders: Where did you have to go in life, what journeys did you have to take, to say, “This is who I am, this is what I love to do, and I don’t care who is watching?”

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1081)