September 25, 2009

not quite stone but a little pebble sometimes. a skipping stone, maybe. smooth and flat. fits the hand somehow. comfortable to hold. satisfying to run a thumb across. but, ultimately, begs to be thrown across the water. my father would blow on his skipping stones for luck. a quick breath, and then a flawless fling. sudden, but executed with a severity of intent that reminded me he was an architect of his every move. perfect. he used to throw me into the lake. shocking sudden water, eyes open coming up to the surface, lanky kid limbs flaying, but in those splitting seconds of fury knowing exactly what to do, reading the sunbeams through the eyeglass water, shooting bubbles through my nose and watching them collide with specs of lake life, breaking surface tension with hands ready to slick back hair and wipe away snot, pissed and proud, i am a good swimmer, always have been, in spite of and all the better for having been thrown in.

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