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Quiet

Posted Jan 11 2009 5:41pm
Except for me, the pool was empty this morning. Low 60s. Whispering pines. 50 meters of solitude.

Sometimes it helps to think about small things--form, drills, glide. Thankfully, while I thought of small things, I did not think about "it." For a whole hour.

Stroke . . . stroke . . . beathe . . . stroke . . . stoke . . . breathe

I did not imagine the gunshots. Or the screaming. Again.

Stroke . . . stroke . . . breathe . . . stroke . . . stroke . . . breathe.

I did not think about families with empty places at the table, pictures of children with silent voices.

Stroke . . . stroke . . . breathe . . . stroke . . . stroke . . . breathe.

I did not hear the talking heads--primped and made up, having no information and yet compelled to spew in order to make money--profiting from pain. Dancing in the midst of grief. Shouting in the national funeral home.

Breathe ouuuuuuut, ouuuuuut, iiiiiiiin. ouuuuut, ouuuut, iiiiin.

I was not angry. My chest did not ache.

Stroke . . . stroke . . . breathe . . .

A refuge. For an hour. From noise. From them. From memory. From me.

Stroke . . . stroke . . . breathe . . . . .
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