The Accidental Olympian

FROST

For the second day in a row every surface finds itself covered with a hostile layer of frost and ice. Looking upon a landscape freshly dusted with snow I often feel comforted, warm, in fact delighted to see a wonderland has enveloped my world as I was sleeping. But ice, ice is harsh, uninviting and bitingly cold. The beauty of the tiny crystals is lost on me and all I tend to see is a hostile and uninviting world.

Ice is snows spiteful sibling, and lately I fear I emulate her wrath.


This morning I welcomed the ice. The cold bit my cheeks, hands, and core and helped to contain the fog and confusion swirling within me.

What if it was me who brought about the ice because of the cold of my own actions? What if this morning the ice is in actuality the reflection of the chilling cold that lies within me?

How ever do I go about thawing this terrible terrible mess?

A LONG WEEKEND IN PARAGRAPHS

A reunion of two long lost friends. Trepidation, "Are we still the same people?" followed quickly by excitement. A meal spent entirely shoeless, sitting on the floor in little wooden chairs, using petite wooden utensils. Art in food. Fanciful drinks make way for conversation, "How did you meet? What happens next? When can I visit?" I smile to myself and realize how far we've come, how much we've changed, and yet look at us, still giggling about 'who called who first.' Later a hug goodbye. As they walk away I can't help but wonder, "When will we meet again?"

*****

Tug boats. Old, new, small, grand. Parked in the harbor, children scrambling for their turn aboard their hard working decks. Horns blasting, talking to one another from across the bay. Fragile muscles exposed by low tide, gripping the walls, wishing to be hidden once again by the dark waters of the Sound. Suddenly we spot Pirates. Flags, boots, eye patches and wooden legs as the Lady Washington appears in all her glory. But where I wonder, is Captain Jack Sparrow?

*****

Expectations high as we head North. Dressed in our finest after painful deliberation over which shoe, which dress, "Honey, what do you think of this one?" still rings in his ears. Frustration mounting with each mile as issues remain unsolved and plans seem to unravel before our eyes. This is not how I expected it would go, running over and over across the front of my mind. What a mess. Yet as the lights dim our confusion and irritation melts away and we reach for one another. Fingers intertwined. As we exit the theater we smile wide eyed and chatter of costume, lighting, voices, as tickled as the children walking before us.

*****

We wake to the realization that the rain will be our constant advisory. Lists compiled, errands to run, we must buck up and brave the storm. A deep satisfaction building as each item is selected and meticulously checked from my list. We shall eat like kings. As the meal progresses the rain morphs the evening. "Movie rain," he whispers. Fully clothed he ventures outdoors wishing to feel the true power of this angry storm. She pulls her ears back in complete disgust, refusing to cross the threshold and I can't help but smile. We marvel at the shear power, the anger behind it all. Less than a minute later he's been transformed. "Everyone should experience that at least once," he proclaims drunk with electricity, completely and utterly drenched.

*****

Sunshine brings hopes of watching her stretch her legs, yet quickly crumbles as pregnant rain drops coat the windshield. Lost in my pity I snap to reality and spot lights, flashing red, and blue and white. "This cannot get any worse," I croak, fumbling for documents, proof of my innocence. He rubs my arm as tears begin to well, I refuse to be that girl, sobbing her way out of trouble. Yet as swiftly as he seems to dash my dreams, he restores them with a warning and a chuckle. This wonderful news releases the tears I've tried so desperately to contain. "Thank you. Thank you so very much." We hide. From the rain, from consequences, hoping to steal away each remaining second before we must return to the dance. Tucked in, surrounded by the hushed dark we turn to one another, "I just wish we had one more day. I'd do anything for just one more."   

SUNDAY MORNING

Seven-thirty, the sound of little paws scraping the sides of a fabric cage jostles me from a dream. I roll out of bed, groggily searching for a sweater, slippers, anything to replace the warmth I just left. 'ZIP,' she is free. Her eyes stare up at me as she opens her mouth wide for her classic morning yawn. "You're welcome," I whisper. With a nudge she leaves her warm cage and together we tip-toe from the bedroom where he still sleeps. I feel like a gather, grabbing toys, books, computers, dirty dishes as I pass through the rooms of our home. A collector of things wanted and discarded, filling my arms as I move towards the kitchen with her. Forward momentum screeches to a halt for yet another stretch. Little legs thrust in front, reaching, reaching, her head bends slowly, almost touching the ground and I can't help but envision her bowing before me, declaring her allegiance and thanking me for her freedom.

Downstairs is cold. A room forgotten overnight. In darkness it gathered a chill, waiting for voices to fill it again with sound and warmth. With a flick there is fire. I amaze at how useless we've all become. The miracle of bringing fire to life requires no more skill than the ability to turn on a switch. She returns from outside, her fur damp and cold to the touch and moves immediately to the artificial warmth.

With the flick of yet another button a sizzle begins deep in the machine. Water begins to rumble, and soon there will be coffee. Morning fog lifting, warmth bringing, comforting liquid. We settle into our mourning routine. I to the couch, collecting the blanket around me, creating a barrier between myself and the cold of the leather. She to the chair. Large and billowing, yet she curls into the smallest ball she can, legs tucking, tail folding, losing the image of the awkward puppy and instead resembling a perfect round package. She sleeps. 

It is strikingly quiet. For a few hours, sometime only moments, it is just the two of us. Myself, free to create, or become lost in the pages of a book. She to return to dreams. Eventually our bubble will burst. Another will shuffle down the stairs, a voice bringing life to our little cave. Conversation will commence, and the day will begin it's dance. As I exist in this morning world I refuse to think of the later. Plans, hopes, decisions, and frets remain tucked away in my pocket. For now, it's simply the two of us, in a world where time stands still.