Last night as my wife and I crossed the street to Sal’s for pizza and wine I looked up and saw the belt of the constellation Orion. I remember how those stars still guide sailors. A vague fear arose that my salmon soul would someday soon feel compelled to return to its birth pool.
WHY AM I HERE?
My salmon soul cruises dangerously close to shore and near more predators like hawks, bears and men to test the mouths of creeks, searching for the route to the birth pool, listening to the sound of each river. It comes to one which makes the harmonics that sound familiar, like home. It turns in but finds fresh water. My salmon soul swims harder, urgently wishing to reach the warm pool of its life’s end. It reaches the shallows and fertilizes eggs of a spectacularly beautiful dying female. My salmon soul feels the agony of the sweet water of death. But another soul will be born.
I stand in the shallows of the Community Therapy Pool. Around me are the dying, the geriatrics in their swimmees, the bariatric woman and me. We swim lap after lap on our way to where? To no cosmic purpose whatsoever? I find no comfort. How does a man find his way home, to his pool of death, let alone get there? I weep salty tears easily. I pull down my swim goggles and gasp for breath, as I can hardly can believe this is happening to me.
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