The sky
The ocean, right in front of her face but completely invisible. This is
why she is afraid of going blind. This is why she is claustrophobic.
There is a gut clenching, heart palpitating, shallow breathing horror
that comes from being two feet from the rolling waves and yet unable to
see them because the air is so thick with fog it could fill a mug.
There is nothing to be done. She can't wave her arms. She can't blow it away
with her mouth or a fan. She can't turn around three times and click her
heels until the blue comes back. No. She has only three choices:
1) Walk toward the place where she knows the waves are, dipping her feet
in to assure herself that even without vision, one can know the ocean
2)
Turn around and search out any visible marker possible in the tulle
fog, running up the sandy path lined with sweet carnations growing on
either side
3) Stay still, eyes closed, and pretend that she is making it
happen. That she only need open her eyes and all balance (or at least
the horizon) will be restored.
Crackling camp fire smoke smells
sweet and dry. The sand cradles her feet like the hot wax of an expensive pedicure. The
invisible waves roll toward her, one after the other, like cars rushing
past on a busy freeway overpass.
But the sky is nowhere to be found. Unless she imagines herself at cruising altitude, among the clouds.
A bird.
A plane.
No comments:
Post a Comment