Measured Lengths

Under this cathedral of glass,
the sky hangs low and colorless,
a sheet of quiet grief pressed against the roof of the world.

Rain whispers above me,
soft percussion on the curved spine of the dome,
while inside, the water waits
still, blue, unjudging.

The kids have gone back
to their mom’s house
from the house that used to be ours.
Their laughter lingers in these rooms of memory
like a fading radio station,
just beyond the dial of my reach.

Here, I slip beneath the surface
where no one can tell
if the salt on my lips
is chlorine or sorrow.

The lanes stretch forward
black lines disappearing into trembling turquoise
like measured choices,
like years I once thought would run straight and parallel.

I push off.

Each stroke is a refusal to sink.
Each breath a negotiation with the ache.
The sadness in my chest becomes propulsion
a furnace turned to forward motion.

One mile.
Then another.

Underwater, the world narrows
to the rhythm of arms and lungs,
to bubbles rising like unanswered questions.

Above, the grey sky presses down.
Below, I carve small rivers through stillness.
I trade heartbreak for distance.
Loneliness for cadence.

Today the sorrow is so vast
I may ride it all the way to two miles
let it carry me farther
than comfort ever could.

And when I climb the ladder,
water streaming from my skin
like something rinsed clean,
I hope my heart, too,

will feel lighter

not empty,
not healed,
but steadier.

As if grief,
like these lanes,
can be crossed
one measured length at a time.