Summer Camp

Growing up I sang
the same tune every summer.
Somewhere between the frantic energy
of "are we there yet"
and the lazy refrain only found
in a child's backseat snores,
you could hear me humming.

~ stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe ~

Every summer I learned it was
okay to wade water and
exhausting to fight currents and
more rewarding in life to dive right in.
They were invaluable life lessons,
teaching me how to avoid drowning
(if possible).

~ stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe ~

To develop our confidence, we called upon
chickens - for nurture and protection and comfort
eagles - to soar across ripples, through and around
swim lanes, ignoring hard boundaries.
rockets - for frequent reminders of the way
we could burn or inspire in equal turns.

~ stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe ~

Since those summers,
I've wandered this earth, flown
through sun kissed skies, ran
through concrete jungles, survived
the cycles of my heart nearly shattering.

~ stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe ~

Who knew that song was more than
a swimming technique and a gold star?
That while exploring murky waters,
it would save me from the depths.
That when I plummet I know there will be
an inevitable gasp of air when I resurface?