I lost my 15-year-old son, Rader, to suicide on a Wednesday night last June (2017). In so many ways, I had no idea what to do or how to react, and looking back, that time is just a blur. But I did know one thing: I needed to take care of myself, whatever that might mean. So the following Monday, I was back at the gym, in class with my friends, working out on the rowing machine (also known as an ergometer). I needed to be. Had to take action.
National Poetry Month: Today's poetry prompt was to write an action poem. So I wrote about rowing.
Taking the Measure of Myself (with an Ergometer)
Since you’ve been gone, I’ve rowed 600,000 meters on the erg.
Each stroke—
the catch: where I'm coiled like a spring,
the drive: the hard push through the feet as I straighten my legs,
the finish: the lean-back where I bring the handle that represents the oars to my chest,
and the recovery: the slow and relaxed return to the starting position—
propels me backward through the waters of my imagination.
I glide across a mirrored lake, or fight the chop and current of a wide river.
When I close my eyes, I’m alone out there,
with the warm sun, and the gentle breeze I create with my own motion,
and the sounds of the water as my oars push through.
I lose myself in the rhythm of it.
Stroke after stroke,
I'm rowing away,
away from the dark clouds,
away from the dark thoughts,
away from the dark times.
Away from the mundanity of the day,
away from the people who don't understand,
away from the tasks of a life that goes on
even when we wish we could just stop it and take a break
and get away.
But not just away.
Stroke after stroke
in my imagined watercraft,
I'm rowing toward,
as if it were a vessel, a sweet chariot,
that could bring me to wherever it is
you have gone.
Six hundred thousand meters,
and each week I row more,
taking the measure of myself
with an ergometer.