one syllableThe weather is temporary. Time. The Olympic flame
will, at some point, leave the building, and someone will shut
the gate to the swimming pool, the tennis court, the vélodrome,
where just yesterday, bicycles went whipping round a track at
45 miles an hour. This body, too, hunched over this keyboard,
will turn and shift. The polish on my toes will dust and crack,
and of course, that is the least of it. So it’s funny how a word
can land on you and dig down so deep, to the root, all the way back,
embolden you to dare of constancy, birth a river built of infinite stones.
It only took one syllable: Yes. And in that flash, I knew forever in my bones.