The Quiet Anxiety

When I wrote the poem from the last entry about three years ago, one of my very best friends was getting married.

There was a fracture, I felt, going on, as with continents shifting. 

I once chaperoned a field trip out to one of the most interesting and visible earthquake faults in the Bay Area, where you can see a fence that once stood in a straight line down the hill. An earthquake occurred, and the fence was shifted; what used to be a straight line flowing down the grassy hillside actually separated by about 6 extra feet of space that weren't there before. Where did the space come from? What happened when millimeters suddenly became yards? The transformation left a break. 

Suddenly, the fence felt silly, useless, superfluous. 

From living in the Bay Area, perhaps I've retained that sense of always being poised on shifting ground. I expect the breaks, now. That quiet anxiety humming just below the surface. But even expecting them, there are always the moments of panic during the quake.