Small Fragile Bones

A Poem by Rhen

Have you ever noticed the way grass moves in the wind? Soft and gentle, each blade swaying in rhythm with the others, almost like the ocean. I wouldn’t entirely know though, I’ve only seen it once.

I was eleven when my family went to Mexico. I remember wanting so badly to swim, to throw myself into the water like I belonged to it. The waves were stronger than I expected. I paddled without any thought of danger, until a swell swept me under. I tumbled, rolled, sand scraping my skin as I tried to surface, coughing, choking, crying.

Maybe that was my first brush with death.

What I remember most isn’t fear, but my mother’s hand on my back afterwards moving in soothing circles, her rhythm almost matching the tide as it splashed at my feet. 

That day has stayed with me. The feeling of being so fleshy, so breakable, so aware of every molecule of my skin. Small, fragile, and swallowed whole by the vastness of the world.    

Sometimes I think that feeling never left me. It lingers, a quiet reminder: that to be alive is to be both soft and breakable, cursed and blessed, by the weight of existence.