Wednesday, January 28, 2009

dreams for summer in January

I watch the people's images dance before me.

Sitting in this same brown chair that many asses have touched, day in and day out, I am watching the people move in and out the center door, but I can't see them.

The lenses in my Versace frames are clear, and attuned to my latest prescription of imminent partial-blindness, but I can't see the people.

My heart longs for silence, for privacy, for the co-worker who always stands close enough to my computer to read the things I'm attempting to write to myself, to go away.

I stare through the clear windows to the muted sunshine outside, as my mind tries to drip back into the comfort of childhood.

The waking to the fresh scent of cut grass in June; the far-away hum of the lawnmower; nudging me awake gently, like a younger sibling, scared you'll be angry when they wake you.

The prickle of bare feet on scalding concrete; the smell of sunscreen and chlorine on a 95 degree day.

The feel of my hair coming loose from its bow or braids, flying free in front of my face like black strands of seagrass; waving majestically with the water's every movement. I never liked the restriction of a swimming cap.

The impatience of popping grapes and drinking Capri Suns during Adult Swim; the excitement of making it through an entire two hours without the pool being shut down for threat of rain or lightning.

This is the first time since my childhood that I have longed for the tranquility and locational distortion of watching my strands of hair float like seaweed underwater; for the feeling of the water easing by me as I stroke from one side of the pool to the other.

Simply: I wish I were swimming.

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