Sunday, April 22, 2007

I don't know what to call this.

It healed unevenly, my broken bone I forget to remember. A hard, bony bump near the top of my wrist, on the back of my left hand, it is a scar that is its own only memory. When I am older, the arthritis that quietly waits for me will settle there, a prescient ancestral shadow already casting its form into the years still to come. It will find its way there, and I wonder, will I be reminded more often then of how that bone broke? Will I remember that night more clearly?

I am here, now.

And these are the nights, now, I want to remember, nights that follow days of fins and masts and lying in the grass. Blue eyes. Without words, we are becoming our own language.

We wade into the water so cold it hurts, and I listen for your song.