In the grey of morning, late, on the day that is my rest day, I go. There is a must in me I do not understand.
She waits. Her hold ready.
At once I am home in rhythm. The balance of left right loses me inside empty rooms. My mind house.
All breath and bubble. All reach and pull.
She ripples memories from my mind bowels, reflects what I do not know. The mirror of me lying flat against the sky. Grey on grey waiting for the sky to break.
To crack open.
I crack open.
I breathe the world I want to hang on to. The child he was, the man he is now more six feet tall and growing into his own life. Leaving rooms full of food love. Mother.
On adventure in the world of learning.
I breathe the mother I have become. The mother my mother was and I am now.
Older, wiser and anxious.
He tells me this, “Mom, you worry too much.”
I listen. This reflection in my mind pond.
Yet the world has cultivated these worries in me like seeds watered by too many seasons of misshapen lives.
It is what I suffer.
So I bubble blow right into the goggle fog my world has become. The grey fog world of future.
Until I find truth in the flat waters of the other side. Shelter.
My feelings of loss. Of missing. Of life past.
And I swim home knowing this is. And days of settling will mend.
For they always do.