Knowing that my teacher has an average life span of two months has added an urgency to the learning that I do not altogether dislike. I join the intermediate class although I know that I belong with the beginners. We stand in an awkward circle of loose-limbed people who want to be winged. We lightly pollute the air with our mindless chatter. We want and we wait.
Our teacher arrives seven minutes late and flashes us a recently-hatched smile. His mind is abuzz with ideas. His voice is sharp as a knife but does not cut. He spills the thirsts that we have been hoarding. He lights the spaces between us. We feed on his wonder and he recycles our rapturous gazes into an ambient light.
He tells us the shadowy parts of ourselves can be trained to emit the best light. We nod as if we understand. We sway with our hands stationed on our hips. He watches us with moist eyes. Our concerns graft onto another host. We hear the music as it breathes for us and take a step in time as if that pattern was something we were built to follow.
The moment is an altitude we’ve wanted to climb. We dance in unison, in utero of a collective mind. The music laughs as we do its bidding. We till the ground with unabashedly eager feet. We submit to the tenacity of a familiar beat. Our teacher claps in slow motion. His head dangles back and he surrenders to the symphony of sound. Everything is impeccably in time. Our teacher sings over our heads “you all entered this world as natural drummers and you will leave disappointed if you do not find your rhythm.” We no longer want to wait.
Catherine O’Brien is an Irish writer. She holds a Ph.D. and an M.A. in English Literature. Her work has most recently appeared in Splonk, X-R-A-Y, and Frazzled Lit Magazine. She has poetry forthcoming in Arlen House's anthology Washing Windows V. You can find out more on X @abairrud2021 and catherineobrien.bsky.social.
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