Search the Community
Showing results for tags 'JOT'.
Found 2 results
-
The sun pours down from the sky, white light spilling into our vision as we row north. Those who have sunglasses are fortunate; those who don’t are simply unlucky for the day. As we reach forward, eyes are trained on the man in front of us, intent on mimicking his shoulder blades, his movements matching our own. The sun bathes us in its light, our white skin even paler in the spring glow than what the winter turned it. With a glance downwards, the boat can be seen sliding over what seems to be black glass, jumping away from the swirling puddles as the dark waters rush along the gunwales. The sight is magnificent, astounding, and in this moment, one of the most beautiful sights that could ever be remembered. The piece ends and restarts on coach’s command; we leave the straightaway behind as he tells us to row on, traveling past the edge of all things familiar. Following the black water, the marsh grasses retreat, and the buildings only ever seen from a distance at last are before our gaze. We’ve never done lightweight before, and maybe that’s the key. “Through the mirror, then, and your chance to shatter it,” someone once told me, and I remember these words as our oars break the water’s dark mirror. Perhaps this is what they meant, and this is our chance. With all of our quirks and oddities, maybe we were never meant for the popular title, and after years of victory being just out of our grasp, this is our opportunity to shatter that empty handed reflection that has been staring back at us. Past the shadow of the traffic clogged bridge, we cruise towards the inlet, our fatigued bodies lightly stroking the water as we turn the boat; with the grant of a moment of rest, we see the docks run down the island toward Longport bridge, which despite its proximity, still hangs in a distant haze. The inlet flows out toward the ocean beyond, the sound of the surf crashing on the shores reaching our ears. We may not know what winning feels like, but the content of listening to that soothing rhythm puts us at peace nevertheless. A shiver of excitement runs down the boat as we protest to coach to row further, regardless of the danger. With the shake of a head, however, we turn around, ready to head home. The sun is low when we reach home, and as coach’s launch stalls out, we sit patiently, together watching the sky shift from a golden yellow to the black and silver night, as the lights along the roads that cross the marshes shine brightly in the spring evening. I haven’t seen a sunset like that in years, and I am glad to have viewed it with you guys. It was an honor rowing in that lightweight 8; there is nothing like seeing something out through the very end, and with what we did win, it proved we shattered the mirror. An old African proverb states "If you want to go fast, travel alone. If you want to go far, travel together." Like the black water, our minds stilled as we pulled the boat out of the bay, but that is what settled under the surface as we left. It takes a boat to pull a boat- and despite all of our differences and the setbacks that occurred, those mirror fragments came together to form a satisfying image, as we-at last- proved ourselves. Champions.
-
The sun shines through the four paneled window, its pale winter light bright on the bleak walls. A white fan hangs from the ceiling, blending in as it is unmoving above. Below the white trim, a dark pinkish rug runs under the rocking chair that is as lively as the fan. A hand crafted wooden dresser rests against the wall next to the door, while across the room lies an infant sleeping in its crib. All is noiseless as the child’s rest is preserved, the world outside the window and door seemingly disconnected from this room. The child itself lies under a white and blue stitched blanket, its wool enough to keep the child warm in the temperature-less room. Its fingers grasp tightly around the blanket, clutching it close; one thumb is firmly being sucked on while it curls up, retreating into itself. Under a head of thin hair, while its flushed face crinkles, its eyelids remain closed, its mind dreaming while the body adjusts to life outside the womb. Eyes still closed, it dreams on, until a yowl comes from somewhere deep in its young throat. Mouth opening in a half yawn, it emits a short, almost frightening cry. Awake now, the infant scoots itself over until it can grab the bars of the crib, and utters the sound again. Something is desired, and by doing this, the child knew it would be nurtured. It reached out with its voice now, seeking that sustenance. There it sat, mouth and eyes opening and closing, almost hopeful to see something in that painful bright blur that reached its pupils. But the cry was not being answered. As the child’s lament for its mother drawled on, it grew to where a gurgling sob echoed through the room. The babe eventually realized its mother was not coming, and it intensified its plea, as it wanted her, and no longer the nurture; simply her presence would be enough. What had it done, in its innocence, to deserve her ignorance? Grasping the bars tightly, it screamed through the crib, pleading for her arrival. The effort was in vain, however, as its fragile little form felt the despair. The cry carried on, a sad tune playing in the lonely room, looping on and on; all the babe wanted was some understanding, some comfort. As a hot tear escaped its eye, it did not question why the mother would not attend to it, as if it were excessively due to a fault in the child. It cried out of need, out of desperation. The cries echoing back into the infants ears finally overwhelmed it, and a powerful weary began to consume the child. Little fingers grew limp in the bars, the child crumpling upon its blanket, now only sniveling. And its snivels grew quiet, ignored just like its cries, as the newborn slipped into the darkness of the dreams it had awoken from.
