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文章基本信息

  • 标题:Back Then, the Young Woman Across the Street.
  • 作者:Evans, David Allan
  • 期刊名称:Aethlon: The Journal of Sport Literature
  • 印刷版ISSN:1048-3756
  • 出版年度:2014
  • 期号:March
  • 语种:English
  • 出版社:Sports Literature Association
  • 摘要:
     Back Then, the Young Woman Across the Street     must've been in her mid-30s. She was    overweight, still living with her parents.    In winter she shoveled the walk and driveway,    puffing heavy white breaths. In spring    and summer into fall, she mowed the lawn    and washed and waxed her red sports car.    And practiced her golf swing, which I envied.    The confident, upright posture, the steadiness,    the surprising grace and ease of the club lifting,    the relaxed balance on both feet, the sweep    of the club-head and follow-through    (always correctly keeping her head down),    and the imagined ball rising high over the lawn    and street and away. Sometimes, decades later,    sitting quietly on a red folding chair, as a timer    ticks on a nearby bookshelf, keeping my spine    straight, my head tipped slightly downward,    eyes closed, there it is--the thought of her--    rising inside the moment it takes to swing    a golf club, and then it's gone, and there's    only the breathing, or the ticking. 

Back Then, the Young Woman Across the Street.


Evans, David Allan


Back Then, the Young Woman Across the Street

   must've been in her mid-30s. She was
   overweight, still living with her parents.
   In winter she shoveled the walk and driveway,
   puffing heavy white breaths. In spring
   and summer into fall, she mowed the lawn
   and washed and waxed her red sports car.
   And practiced her golf swing, which I envied.
   The confident, upright posture, the steadiness,
   the surprising grace and ease of the club lifting,
   the relaxed balance on both feet, the sweep
   of the club-head and follow-through
   (always correctly keeping her head down),
   and the imagined ball rising high over the lawn
   and street and away. Sometimes, decades later,
   sitting quietly on a red folding chair, as a timer
   ticks on a nearby bookshelf, keeping my spine
   straight, my head tipped slightly downward,
   eyes closed, there it is--the thought of her--
   rising inside the moment it takes to swing
   a golf club, and then it's gone, and there's
   only the breathing, or the ticking.


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