I struggle not only with the urge to catch them, but what is worse is I struggle with the desire to prove to myself… the lines engraved in my face, the fat dimples in my thighs, the small lining, the pouch I carry in front I suck in, I pretend are not there when I pass myself in shorts or in your sunglasses, or the glass reflection of this morning’s pond
Those lines of aging do not exist in me
Yet, my neck as I crane to watch their young caps, yellow, pink and orange, each color I remember denotes a different wave, a different age start, swim before bike before run, bobbing breath in bubble out beyond my reach. My neck which now only opens like a half closed book, it’s spine glued stiff so words read blur on the edge of pages as vision without readers after 50 leaves me half wondering
Why am I trying to catch them?
What am I trying to prove?
That all that I’ve lived
That all that I’ve learnt means nothing?
I stretch my stroke so my rhythm slows, my breath catches itself up so I can again take control of who I want to be
Who do I want to be?
I want to swim headlong into the wind splash into the water waves until I know I am living because I know when I feel the wind strong rushing head ways into me I am facing the challenges that have been put before me
And that is what life is about isn’t it?