I found an oar. A short yellow one. I swung it around like a battle ax and attacked people. It has earned a name.
If I was Stef, I would have given it a good name.
But I come from a long line of people who call things what they are.
My Papa Howard had a cat called Cat. My Dad’s truck was the truck. And my oar is Oar.
Not a name to inspire fear, for it is only an object. The deadliest of all weapons is nothing more than an object, if left on the table. Drapes don’t kill people, people kill people.
And such a lovely oar. Found, no, rescued from the deep. 20 feet down, covered in silt. Redeemed even, from an eternity of solitude and darkness.
On a side note, there is nothing better than diving deep. I can’t believe how inexperienced I was just last summer. I was missing one thing that was keeping me from the bottom. It cost me the second half of the month of August and the first part of September. Then six months later I died.
But diving. Sweet Jesus seemed to make me half sea lion. I am so much happier when I am in the water. When I can swim and play and see what there is all to see. It has been a dream of mine since I was little, to scuba dive. I would go and check out books in the library and just look at the pictures and the fish. Any book with underwater photography, from college textbooks to children’s books.
One day. One day I will be able to afford a housing and I will be there.
One day I will fulfill a dream,
a destiny
a design.
Me and my oar.
Something pretty:
