On Breaking Bones

On Breaking Bones

In the style of Jeffrey Harrison

The day Danielle drowned,

I whipped Bobby with my swim cap

on the bleachers before practice.

He whipped back at me, laughing,

and chasing me up and down the slippery pool deck.

3 o’ clock! Everyone line up.

55 high school swimmers hopped in the water

like any normal Tuesday, feet first! (as always)

and swam the normal 500 yard warm-up.

It was somewhere in the second set

that normal left the building.

In lane three, me and Z stopped for a drink

when we realized everyone else had stopped as well.

There were whispers. And shouts.

Lane one! Look in lane one!

Our coach was in the water, trousers blown up

like a parachute, dress shirt soaked

like a wet t-shirt contest in Rio.

He was holding a girl. Dragging her onto the deck.

It was Danielle. My childhood friend.

And she wasn’t breathing.

Coach didn’t hesitate with CPR.

They were soaking wet, he was drenched in sweat.

We all stared as he thrust his strength into her body.

Someone called the ambulance.

They didn’t come for another seven minutes.

Coach didn’t stop for even a second,

pouring sweat onto her bare skin.

He broke her ribs. We heard them crack.

He was crying.

He couldn’t save her.