Swift

After I run it feels I could walk into the sky.

My body takes in so much air around me.  There is no separation between Sarah and the huge space over-head.  My breath takes me to a place of doing one thing.  I am free to notice and to feel things I would otherwise miss.

Yesterday I saw a swift.  A swift is a bird my x-husband always pointed out to me. 

Swifts have very short legs and never settle voluntarily on the ground.  

Instead, they cling to vertical surfaces.   

I would huff and puff to the top of a climb and sit beside him.  My feet cramping in my black rubber shoes and fly-away hairs spindling into the breeze like tiny wind socks.   He would be sitting still as an Indian watching over me.  I always noticed his hands, how they calmly held my life by a rope.  He laced his fingers over his belay device as if he were praying.  I think actually, he was.

"You see the swift?"  He'd say.

"Yes.  I see it."  I'd say, a bit confused about why he'd always point out the same bird to me.

"They can fly over 100 miles per hour and they never stop.  They just live  to play."  He'd tell me.

"Wow."  I'd say.  "My feet hurt."

"Look at 'em go..."  His eyes were up there, with the swifts. 

Now I get it, and the swift I saw yesterday made me cry.

I walked back to the house and cried and watched the bird.  I watched it until it was gone, and I looked for another one.   I wanted to ask him, "Look.  You see the swift?"

I see it.  I see it now, Jeff.