Monday, June 24, 2002

Water Prayer

Somewhere in Texas, on this hot day in June, my friend Liz is burying her mother who died of cancer last week. Today is the funeral. I'm in Boston thinking of her and swimming and swimming and swimming in the blue pool and sending out a water prayer for her as my hands come together in prayerful positions, then part, one breast stroke after another. Hope she's managing, give her strength, let her heal, let her get through this, let her cry a poolful of tears. Splash, splash, splash, splash.

I am remembering as I dive down below the water and with googles see chrystal blue water and people's bodies suspended in watery support, the day my mother died and how disturbing it was to see people rushing about in the world for no good reason. Didn't they know the game was over? Where were they rushing to?

Can a prayer travel from a swimming pool of blue water in Boston to a hot dry Texas funeral home? Perhaps. My strokes stir a friendly breeze from the East Coast which wanders west and puffs a small wind her way. This prayer flips the edge of a dotted swiss curtain in the front room, next to one of the ushers who is sweating in his black suit as he hugs Liz, telling her not to worry, everything's gonna be okay -- the day is cooling off and the evening will be better.