University of Northern Iowa

AftershocksAuthor(s): John KinsellaSource: The North American Review, Vol. 288, No. 1 (Jan. - Feb., 2003), p. 52Published by: University of Northern IowaStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/25126903 .

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strings of ancestors streaming back

through the ages, those who have

stepped aside so I could have my turn to live on this earth. They are

returning to greet me, the thread of

generations tying me into family past and future, so that together we

form a web that supports each one

of us. They're half hidden in the

moon's shadows, their shapes

barely visible except that I can see

they are looking at me and smiling.

Watching me step and glide, step and glide. Giving their assent to

the directions I've chosen, nodding their approval at the decisions I've

made, blessing me even while they wait for me to join them.

I shake my head and they are

gone, and I remain skating circles

on the pond, cutting an ever-deep

ening ring of grooves into the ice, as if I'm settling into a track. Soon

the rhythm of step-glide, step-glide is lost in the larger rhythm of circle

upon circle, just as the minutes of

my life flow into hours and the

hours into days, in rhythm with the

earth rotating on its spindle. Around and around, unchanging,

year after year. When I was

younger, I would have condemned

such cyclical repetition as boring. But now the lack of event is what I treasure: the skirting of illness, the

avoidance of loss for one more day.

Now I see that the repetition, the

regularity of pattern, the ordinary nature of it all creates its own

beauty?the beauty of rising

healthy to repeat the same actions

until I sink into sleep so that I can

rise again the next morning. The

privilege of rising to repeat the

cycle, to live a day free of disaster so that I can pull my skates from

the hall closet one more time and

trek down to the pond. Somehow, that's become enough for me.

In my life I've done many things in the dark, or at least in the semi

dark when the moon rather than

the sun dominated the sky. Rarely could I clearly see where I was

going?and when I thought I

could, when I sped up because I

thought I knew the placement of

the next stroke, that's when my

falls were hardest. It's a humbling

experience, skating in the dark,

living in the dark. It's not the steps that have carried me forward, it's

been the glide?those acts of grace,

the gifts that appear seemingly from nowhere. The glide that

brings freedom and joy, as if one

were, for just a moment, a bird

soaring above the frozen water,

looking down to see the entire earth. It's trusting the glide that's

allowed me to keep going. And

trusting that the ice will hold?

although I know that some day an

unavoidable crack will open in

front of me and those who love me

will remember me by the hole

where I disappeared, and perhaps

by what I have left behind: a mit ten casually dropped on the ice, a

bit of brightly colored fluff. I don't time my skating sessions.

I just stop when I get tired.

Sometimes it's fifteen minutes.

Sometimes an hour. At some point

I skate over to the beach where I

left my boots and exchange them

for my skates. I tie the skate laces

together, ease them over my

shoulder, whistle to my dog, and

take off down the trail.

It's darker in the woods than on

the pond, but my feet can feel the

well-worn path even in absolute

blackness. The oaks and hickories arch above me. Sometimes I

glimpse a flopping body disappear

ing into a tree cavity?the owl

returning to its nest. Sometimes

coyotes yip and sing on a distant

hill. But usually I walk in silence.

The lights of my house flicker

above the distant rise, and smoke

curls from my chimney. But I return slowly, deliberately. The

exercise has warmed me thoroughly.

I have no need to rush. D

JOHN KINSELLA

Aftershocks

There have been at least fifty aftershocks

since yesterday's quake, which coincided

with a particularly vicious cold front,

perverse revenge for a dry winter.

Lines packed close together, non-gliding birds catch the wind or it catches them, and tossed over fragments of bush

disorientate; thin trees bearing up as thickset

classifications crack and fissure from inner

rings out; a rufous songlark flies low near

the house, intent on insects clinging to barely sheltered spots, standing water rippling

in gravel shallows, seismographs or omens,

volatile membranes holding the district together.

52 NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW January-February 2003

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