Catch and Release

I sometimes think about you, and our brief, yet terrifying, encounter. Almost never do my thoughts rest solely on you; what you might be doing, or how you've been. But instead, on my great escape.

I think about you all the time. More than just our magical, and all too short time together, but about what could have been. And, I am filled with regret.

I am overtaken by joy. As I today still feel the heart pounding in my chest, I recall the feeling of it slowly giving up, in some sort of agonal rhythm while the rest of me starved for oxygen, and as I gasped for a breath. My body shivered and convulsed in your hands... dying. You just grinned, as if taking pleasure in my demise.

When thinking about our tryst of sorts, I remember smiling gently as I held you in my hands. I had never seen such a perfect specimen. Such life, color and mystery.... such promise.

Trapped in your grip for what seemed like an eternity, I nearly slipped into unconsciousness, I almost gave in. Instead, I somehow slipped back into the sea. Whether it was a result of a last, desperate escape attempt, (a swift swing of my tail), or from a flash of pity that you felt for me, which made you loosen your grasp, I do not know. All I know is that I dove from your vessel, head first into the waves. Like a knife, I plunged through the surface of the water, and cut the hangman's noose from my neck. My heart began to beat more strongly, my muscles began to respond to my commands, my color returned, and the fog began to evaporate from my mind. I am alive.

I let you go. Whether it was clarity of mind and heart that allowed for this, or, just the opposite, was uncertain at the moment. (And, had remained this way for quite some time.) I watched you disappear into the depths of the ocean, as well as the ripple you left behind. With both you, and any evidence that you were actually real, gone, I am left alone... in silence. Nothing remains but the churning of my mind that mimics the slapping of the waves against the hull of the boat. I am left only with questions, most of them begin with "Why".

When the trance was broken, and Fear laid down to rest, I was left with a new feeling of confidence. I swam through the shallows of the clear blue sea, darted through the tapestry of coral, and rode the warm currents through my vast underwater home. I continued on with caution, yes, but more so with bravery... with wisdom and with an overwhelming sense of freedom. I had never felt so alive. It's strange when I think of it... that it took nearly dying to make me truly live.

Why did I let you go? Why did I not pull you in completely, bring you to the bottom of the boat, and lay there with you until your end? I could have made your beauty last forever. You would never have grown old, never have felt hurt, hunger, loss or pain again. You could have stayed with me for the rest of my days, frozen in time... this day, and this time. It only would have cost you your life. Instead, you're gone. And I'm left only with a memory, and the sorrow that is loss. I am alone.

Since our battle, I have met many other fish. I have swam to distant, foreign seas, seen amazing things that I thought impossible, and I have become even more beautiful as I've grown. I've never returned, in mind or body, to the spot of my near death... and subsequent new life...

I've not left the spot where we met all that time ago, in body, or mind. I float, alone and silent in my aluminum boat. I still cast a line for you, from time to time, but you never bite. I doubt you come around here anymore. I have caught other fish since you, but they all seem pale, lifeless and ordinary by comparison. None the less, I continue casting, it's all I can do anymore...

You will never have me again, for I know you and your lures. You must come to terms with it. I will stay away, never to see you again... but oddly thankful for our chance encounter...

I fear I will never see you again, but I cannot accept this. I am regret personified.

In nearly suffocating me, you gave me true life.

You gave me a glimpse of true happiness, then took it away.

I thank God every day that I am the one that got away.

I curse His name each day, for you are the one that got away.

Let us mend this first

Her knees give way under the force of her own body's weight. Though she is slight, it is enough to make them creak during their descent to the earth. It is a somewhat painful reminder of the years that they have weathered in concert with the rest of her equally talkative joints. Despite the pain, she continues to the ground, which has recently become a much more difficult, and dangerous, task. Though she knows the danger lies not within the bend, or even the possible break, but with the perception of such a bend.

Her squeaking hinges speak in some foreign language that only others who share her collection of years and experiences seem to understand. They ask not for pity or help, but only for someone to listen.

No one can seem to hear her over the ever present screams, bickering and explosions that poison her surroundings. How could they, she wonders. It is difficult to hear whispering in one ear while someone shouts in the other.

She is the whisper.

She continues to let gravity pull her to the ground until her arthritic patellae find the mat lain over the linoleum floor. With a slight jolt of pain that shoots up her thighs, her downward plunge is halted, and she is halfway there.

Other whisperers, and whispers alike, surround her. They slowly grow and build to a quiet crescendo, barely audible to even the keenest of ears, but somehow easily palpable and impossible to ignore.

As she wills her body nearer the floor, her ancient bones somehow keep pace with the other, less prehistoric skeletons, wrapped in equally less wrinkled skin. In this moment, what she sees, what she hears, and what she feels, is love. Though she knows that others may not interpret it in quite the same way.

She knows that we are scared, and that we are hurt, and that in times like these, even the best of us can loosen our grip on even our tightest held convictions.

At the conclusion of her daily bend, the whispers fade, and yet again give way to the now usual barks and fire that are the blaring minority. Though, none of us even seemed to notice the symphony of whispers in our one ear, as we were being bombarded with the lonely screeches in the other.

As she exits the mosque and steps back into the cacophony of the city where she was born so many years ago, through the throngs of protest signs, burning Qurans and angry faces, she feels as distant from an American citizen as she believes possible, yet instead of finding sadness, or hatred, her mind focuses only on one solitary thought. She hopes that her prayer is one day answered; please let them hear our whispers through the screams.