Friday, March 22, 2013

March Swim

Today I biked

outside in March

It is beautiful here

Still cold, but warm

Patches of snow remain in the shadows of the trees.

But the sun is warm.

Warmer than at home.

We stay with odd people.

They do their jobs.

And they disappear.

Into their room.

And shut the door.

All afternoon.

They appear for supper, delivered - they don't cook.

Do the dishes.

And repeat their disappearing act.

We sit in the house entirely alone


We've known a lot of cultures

between our travels.

But never encountered anything as odd as this.

As if we have leperosy.

We sit uncomfortable.

No books, no games, no signs of life.

No tv, no radio, no music.

An awkward silence fills the house.

Are they sleeping in there?

Should we whisper?

What is wrong with us?

It reinforces the wonder we have if we are just a job.

They were paid from 9-12, and that is that

But it is uncomfortable

sitting here alone in silence, bored, whispering

We make plans of escaping.

We tug the rug just a little

setting it off from it's perfect perfection lined up just so.

We lay guesses to how many seconds when they are out

will pass before they straighten it.

We push the salt an inch away from the pepper on the stove

And count to how long before someone pushes them back to their place

Properly lined up with their labels facing out.

We tire of these games and the sense of rejection sets in again

Are we so bad that they can't hang out and play a game of cards?

What culture is this - this culture of ice?

So we go for a bike ride

leaving the silent house.

And bike through the woods on this sunny March day.

We bike to the lake.

No one is near.

I strip down to my undies

And dive in.

The cold stings my skin, bites my brain

I crawl out, warm up in the sun

Then dive in again.

For me, it's a ritual

Washing away the smell

Of people who walk by when I cry

Who leave us alone like lepers.

I wash it away.

In the cold mountain lake.

We bike home, flying down hill.

Wind on wet skin is cold.

I run to the fire, warm up my fingers.

They look at me like I'm crazy

All doubt for sure erased.

Who swims in the mountains in March

In lakes still with unmelted snow piled 'round?!

I do!

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