Bravery, unlike beauty, isn't in your eye. It's in the pit of your gut, and tells your adrenals whether or not it's time to run away, pass out, or barf. Bravery, though, like beauty, is beheld by the beholder.
Here is an example: Standing in front of a group of not-happy people and saying that their product is still not manufacturable, or that the fix (Stamp On Board) on the 20th revision of the product deserves its acronym, was not such a big deal for me. For some people, the prospect of standing in front of any group of people, let alone saying something, is enough reason to change one's identity, leave the country, and fill every barf bag on the journey.
I, myself, congratulate me every time I write something down for public view. And even more so, when I talk about something that is dear to me. This is not something which I do easily in public, on the internet, or sometimes even in a private-secret-decoder-ring-low-tech-letter. Sure, it could be easy telling someone else that his/her baby is ugly (i.e., the SOB); telling someone else that I am the one with an ugly baby... that's something entirely different. Surely it'd be best to hide the baby, protect it, nurture it, and hope it turns into a swan, yes? Well, no. All of us have an ugly baby.
With that horridly scatter-brained intro behind me, I present to you an attempt at bravery. (It is an early draft, and at the same time those with able eyes will notice improvements made since the first draft. That first draft being sent in virtual secret-decoder-ring not completely low-tech methods.)
Sliding
Behind the creaky doors was one more treasure:
a flurry of memories drifting from the old Flyer sled.
He called it sliding...
First, a powdery footstep to start downhill, then a hiss of the runners as they spit snow behind them, faster and faster.
It's the thrill of not having control, the blur of time going by,
not knowing for sure what he just missed, what landmark he passed along the way.
Frozen spray blurs his vision as he skids across the creek,
and fragments of his childhood splinter from the surface
heaping in random piles as he topples into the snow on the other side.
Or was that the school teacher who fell off his pony into the snow when it was his family's turn to host her for the weekend?
And wasn't that the time that Dad rode the plow horse to get him? Stories drift thick and fast and much bigger than his pony, Rex.
He once tied the sled to old Rex, "and that did not work too well," he says, as he laughs with the thrill of the ride
and a few stray sparkles glance through his eyes, setting over a distant winter.
The weathered slats on rusty hinges hold little that's new; Mostly a tangle of cobwebs, with dust flaking off in the breeze.
But for now he has his sliding memory.
(August, 2010)
