A Primal Memory

It’s when the water laps against my skin that I remember my body’s rhythm.  Arms wide, pushing away, pulling in, legs pleating, pacing and the slow, slow glide. Breaststroke. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in.  Breathe out.  I luxuriate in this buoyant movement, expansive and broad.  Turning on my back, I see myself mirrored in the sky, an arabesque or, perhaps, a waltz. 

Climbing out of the water my legs hold me unsteadily, spasms jerking my steps.  A turtle wishing for gills.

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6 Responses to A Primal Memory

  1. Judy says:

    You caught in the moments of this beautiful piece of writing the pathos of having been wrenched from what should be instinctual, indeed primal, and then thrust into the awkward unnatural life that is living with MS. Well done.

    • writingms says:

      Yes, Judy….awkward and unnatural. How true those words are. It’s the knowing of what was and the constant battle with what is, isn’t it? The palpable, constant yearn.

  2. Wow. Each word is full of so much imagery and emotion. So much said in so few words. Thank you.

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