Soft pink blooms
Soft pink blooms rise from tender green stalks as J tells me he’s been thinking of killing himself again.
“It’s not that serious,” he says. “A reoccurring thought. A compulsive dialogue in the back of my head. Like did I leave the oven on? Or: is there something I’m forgetting to remember?”
This early spring has thrown most of us into disarray. We have contended with temperamental weather: cold and hot, then cold again. Rainy to dry, to overcast and gray. Today clouds of patchwork grays and blacks linger low in the sky, blanketing us from the sun and dulling our sensibilities.
“But you’d never do it?” I ask.
“Oh, probably not,” he says. “I mean I’m too frightened of that solution. It’s too inconvenient you know? I’m a pragmatist at heart.”
A piece progress from Wildfire
Kaleb, hunched and focused on the starting block, harsh electric wail jolting him through the air and into the safety of the water.
Kaleb, hunched back and pointed toes; statuesque on the starting block—Greek like, marbled muscle. A harsh electric wail and then an arch through the air, into the safety of the water where muscle memory takes over, gliding his body through choppy chlorine. Never first, but always almost first. Seconds delayed: a touch of the fingers or a flip at the end of each length. Graceful. I’m always certain he could win. Skilled. If only he had the resolve to go just a bit further.
During the home meets I would sneak into the stands and sit high up in the rafters to avoid his gaze. He would be embarrassed to see me. Maybe a little annoyed. Plus I found a perverse sort of pleasure watching him from up high. The way he warmed himself up before each swim: shaking his arms and stretching out hard muscle. The natural flow of his body through the air and into the pool. The pops of arm and face synchronized in perfect rhythm. Then the inevitable exhaustion at the end of each lap; his mouth wide open, chest heaving heavy, eyes tired and straining to the scoreboard.
Then, of course, the extra. The treat. His body climbing from the pool, dripping wet suit clinging to skin. Chlorine soaked and shiny walking back towards a towel or the locker room or someone just off in the distance. It seemed so funny. I had seen him naked. We had gone much further than this. But this felt different. Something just for me.