Caution, Falling Limbs

one, an ocean, an adolescence. together we went swimming and me, demonstrating a consistent flirtation with death, pretended to drown. you, demonstrating your never flailing loyalty and personal commitment to bravery and danger, saved me.

two, mexico, a family vacation in the throes of teenage angst. that summer we sat in poolside chairs and refused to take off our over-sized t-shirts long enough to go swimming, despite the heat.

a gust full of wind, a hand full of sand, an envelope and a paper full of ink. yes, there have been a lot of words. there has been a lot of time that never fails to pass, however quickly or slowly or estranged, it passes, birthdays, holidays, the solstice and the equinox, 7-day-forecast upon 7-day-forecast upon 7-day-forecast and on. we started out small and i suppose we still are, really.

three, a suburban neighborhood. in old tennis shoes i run the blocks it takes to get from my house to yours, just as you have done for me. i can get there in under 5 minutes when you need me.

four, a hospital, a ward. we found ourselves here more than once, in the waiting room, or perhaps on the other side of the door. there was the time we visited and you collapsed in the hallway crying when you saw us. your big toe started to bleed.

this is a place of falling limbs, with little pieces of the world landing in our hair, rain and snow flakes and building debris. this is a construction site. this is a life full of sour grass and tree houses and sneaking out the window to walk around our empty suburban streets in the middle of the night, just to be together and feel alive.