Flow

Flow
Sinewy, freckled arms heave buckets of water. They cast brilliant arcs with dancing greens, blues and gold. My mom’s fingers tightly cupped; junkets plunging delicately into oceanic depths. They compete with pelicans for the undetectable splash. With barracuda scales that slice apart hydrogen she streamlines past me and imprints flow. I am hypnotized by her periodicity. On land, footsteps lack synchrony. For her, flow necessitates an aqueous canvas. Once removed from it, the ground’s impact precludes her trajectory. I have not forgotten this silhouette; strokes provide a pacemaker in me and evolve into steps that now pound dirt. Rocking to and fro; stroke and breath are lullabies in my tumultuous mind. Only when I am momentarily suspended in air do I mirror her aquatic existence; hitting earth causes diffraction of a gazillion charged particles. Still, gravity does not constrain flow from gazelle or cheetah, or, even me. When legs become wheels, in rapid succession, you cannot delineate toe from surface.