I posted this poem on my blog on January 9, 2021, but I'm organizing myself a bit more, so I'm adding it to this page as well. I have a few more poems coming, so stay tune!
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The summer of 1978, my mother decided it was time I learned to swim. I was six years old. Water was always fun as long as I could touch the bottom or hang on to the side. I didn't mind dunking under the water, but only with my eyes shut tight and my nose pinched closed. Splashing was okay as long as I could control the amount directed toward my face.
Right away I knew I was in trouble when the teacher wanted me to hold my breath for more than two seconds at a time without pinching my nose. I had to lift my feet off the bottom of the pool and “tread” water without any kind of floatation device. Then when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, she expected me to kick and paddle away from the safety of the side. Clearly she had no idea how ridiculous her requests were. I mean, how was I supposed to keep water out of my nose and eyes while doing all that? The last straw was when she dropped her keys in the not-so-shallow end and said, “Whoever gets the keys first, wins!” I tried, oh how I tried. Stretching and straining, I tilted so close to the surface that my ear dipped under, but it was no use. I just couldn't reach the keys and keep my head above water at the same time. How could she ask me to do something so impossible? Even though I was ready to give up, go back home and color and draw in the safe confines of my house the rest of the summer, neither the teacher or my mother agreed. Finally, I was assigned my very own teen-aged volunteer to help with the rough spots separate from the rest of the group. She was quiet, friendly, and reminded me of my favorite cousin. We clicked right from the start. Slow and steady was my course. I still had a hard time putting my head underwater, but she held me up as I learned how to kick and paddle, all the way across the shallow end of the pool. My biggest thrill came when she showed me how to float on my back. Even to this day, I remember how to keep my back arched, head back, and hold a big breath like a bubble in my chest. I can't begin to describe the exhilaration of when she let go and I floated all by myself. The last day of swimming lessons finally arrived, along with the test of all tests... JUMPING OFF THE DIVING BOARD. Of course it was a little diving board, just three steps from the ground, not the insanely high diving board six steps from the ground. However, to this little six year old, it might as well have been on the highest cliff directly above the smallest pond. The teacher claimed all we had to do was climb three little steps, walk along the normal low board and jump off into her waiting arms. RIGHT. Propelled by all the shouts of, Come on! You can do it!, I braved the three enormous steps, walked down the never-ending diving board and looked down at my teacher, her arms open wide ready to receive me. The longer I looked down, the farther away she shrank. I wrapped my arms around myself and my knees locked. Torn between victory and crawling back to the stairs to leave the swimming pool forever in shame, my moment of redemption came in the form of my mother. She stood on the other said of the chain-linked fence, her fingers interlocked amongst the links. “I will get you anything you want. Anything at all, if you will jump off!” I took a long hard moment to deliberate on what would be worth risking my life and limb for. There was only one thing—ONE THING—that would tempt me enough to put my life in the hands of a woman who was simply treading water in the deep end of the pool where I had no hope of touching the bottom. My arms still wrapped around my tiny frame, I asked, “Can I have a box of 64 crayons?” My mother didn’t miss a beat. “Yes! Yes! Anything you want!” I looked from my mom down to my teacher and took that one last terrifying step. I SURVIVED. True to her word, my mother drove me straight from the swimming pool to Hyde's drugstore. I led the way to the aisle that held the prize of all prizes...Crayola’s box of 64 Crayons. An extraordinary supply of exotic colors divided into four individual holders with sixteen crayons each, including bronze, silver, and gold. If that wasn’t enough, the icing on the cake—a built-in sharpener in the back. My life was complete, and I never had to jump off the diving board again.
Sylvia Kopecky tapped the soft rhythm of Three Blind Mice on the table in the small interrogation room the secret service agents left her. Slightly smaller than her apartment, the only thing missing was the broken-down refrigerator and the outdated television set. Light bulb flashes reflected against the beveled outside windowpane. She had never seen that many photographers and reporters in one place before. They all shouted questions at her as the police and other government officials led her away.
Energy drained from her body as the second hand of the wall clock ticked by. She hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast and her insides churned angrily. She stopped tapping and folded her hands to have a place to rest her head. A loud metallic creak invaded the silent space. Sylvia’s eyes shot wide as she bolted up. Two men walked into the room wearing black suits, white-collared shirts, and thin black ties. Neither spoke, their expressions cold and blank. The door closed with a loud click and they sat down on the opposite side of the table. The one with short blond hair opened up a thin sturdy file folder, scanned the first page, and then looked up. “Ms. Kopecky, at 10:46 this morning, President Edgar Hamilton entered the emergency care facility located at 6601 Briar Avenue with a gunshot wound to the shoulder. Is that correct?” “Yes.” Sylvia wanted to ask for water, but her mouth was too dry to form the words. “You refused immediate service to the President on the basis of a digital triage scanner he passed through, which registered his injuries at a twenty-four.” “I didn’t refuse anything. He was assessed and handled accordingly.” She cleared her throat and linked her fingers to hide the tremble. “What level is a twenty-four?” “Low risk.” Every nerve in her body rattled to the point of falling apart, but she couldn’t—wouldn’t, not in front of these people. “Low risk? It was a gunshot wound to the shoulder. Standard scanners would register that at least a forty-five.” Sylvia sniffed. “Not in this neighborhood. We had to realign our scanners because gunshot wounds are just about all we do around here. The numbers were too high and brought our district points down.” Points were important for funding. No one thought to ask about that, among other things, when the wonder-care system launched—that was the favorite term for it nowadays. Higher points meant less funding. Less funding meant more deaths. More deaths meant less the government had to deal with. “Yes, but he’s the President.” Sylvia shrugged. “We rely on the scanners his healthcare system paid for. The two agents, who protected him, each registered a seventy-four. Most folks that come in with a seventy-four don't make it out.” Agent Blondie closed the folder and rested his clasped hands on top. “Your situation is extremely serious, Ms. Kopecky.” “I was just doing my job.” “You do realize it’s not that simple.” “Why not?” The words came out before she could stop to think. “How do I justify giving special treatment while others are at death’s door?” “You can’t make that kind of decision when it comes to the President of the United States of America.” Agent Stanton enunciated each word. “And? Wasn’t his whole campaign built around a new and more standardized medical system?” She made air quotes. Sylvia had more to say but knew it didn’t matter. These men weren’t here to listen to another sob story about government failures, nor did they care. Agent Blondie opened the folder again. “Tell me about your husband, Victor Kopecky.” Sylvia heartbeat quickened and her chest tightened. “What?” “He died five years ago.” “Yes.” The word barely made it past her lips. “Liver disease.” He flipped through several more sheets. “Was he an alcoholic?” “No, he was not.” Sylvia’s words were sharp. “He was exposed to a pesticide as a child on his grandfather’s farm. It damaged his liver.” “It says here that a match was found, but was canceled because another recipient came up.” “No, the other recipient had the money to pay off everyone so he could be bumped up. Vic was promised the next one, but died two days before it was found.” Sylvia cleared her throat, relieved her voice hadn’t cracked. “And your son?” “My son?” “He was shot to death, wasn’t he?” “What does Todd have to do with anything that happened today?” “Do you blame the government for the deaths of your family?” Sylvia pressed her lips together and shook her head. Several of her co-workers had more than enough to say about what was wrong with the world, but she wasn’t out to take a stand, send a message, or cause any waves. Was the government responsible for her misfortunes? Of course not, but Sylvia knew something snapped the moment the gunshot registered on the triage scanner along with the name that followed. All the power stolen bit by bit, moment by moment, rushed back like a tidal wave. “Were you attempting to incite a riot?” “No.” She clenched her fist and through gritted teeth said, “I was doing my job.” Sweat formed along the back of her neck and above her lip. The room felt warmer than before. Was it nerves, or were they playing mind games? It didn’t matter. She had already cracked under the pressure. That’s what got her here in the first place. “Did you know about the parade?” “Yes, everyone did.” “Did you know there was going to be a riot?” “No, but that’s nothing new around here.” “Then explain to me what happened today. Why not just let the President go through first?” Sylvia sat back again, folded her arms, and let out a sigh. “You ever hear of frog soup?” When neither agent responded, she said, “Ol’ man Bennett comes in at least once a week. He’s all the time hurting himself. I think he’s just lonely and looking for some companionship. Last time he was in, he told me one of his better stories. No clue if it’s true or not, but it’s been rolling around in my mind ever since.” She leaned forward again, feeling a bit of her nerve coming back. She smiled to herself when the agents shuffled in their seats to keep their distance. “The idea is if you drop a frog into a pot of boiling water, his natural instinct is to hop out the moment he feels the heat. But, if you place him in a pot of tepid water and raise the heat slowly, he will die before he realizes what’s going on.” “Is there a point?” She shrugged and looked down at her hands. “I’ve never been one to make a fuss. That was always Vic’s job. Maybe if the medical reforms came about ten years earlier and actually worked, Vic would still be alive. Maybe if my boy had the right to carry protection he’d still be…” She hated the hunger in her voice. Searing tears flooded her eyes, but she held her breath and fought through the unbearable pressure before they escaped. “I’ve been living at the bottom of that pot far too long. It was time to jump out.” After a moment of silence, the agent finally said, “You know that isn’t possible, Ms. Kopecky. A frog will jump out, no matter what.” She sat back and sighed. “The meaning is still the same.” Agent Blondie looked at his partner, who gave a short nod. They both stood, the metal chair legs scraping against the tile floor. They left and walked into the adjoining observation room behind the mirrored wall. “She’s no fan of the government, but she’s harmless.” The agent handed her folder to his superior, a tall thick man who stood with his arms crossed, watching Sylvia Kopecky. “She’s clearly not the militia type,” the other said. “Hmmm, maybe not, but she’s started something. They had to close the clinic and most of the businesses on that block due to the picketing. They can’t seem to get a handle on it.” The superior shook his head. “If we arrest her, we’ll have another riot on our hands. If we let her go, it would only strengthen the opposition. She may not be a part of any group, but that won’t stop them from making her a hero… or a martyr.” “How are the agents who were shot?” “They’ll recover. If she hadn’t stood her ground and gotten them in when she did...” “So, she is a hero,” the other said. “Yeah, great, that’s all we need.” |
AuthorCreativity is a muscle that must be stretched to be strengthened. Here's to the stretching. ArchivesCategories |