Three point One-Nine Inches of Sky
3.19 inches is the size of their universe.
33 men wait thousands of feet beneath the earth in a 600 square foot cell of solid rock
but the number that matters most to them now is 3.19 inches.
That is the diameter of the tubes that connect them to the outside world,
that feed them air and nourishment, offer hope and news from home.
Take your vision and perspective of the world,
break it into a thousand pieces,
toss them into the air and as they fall to earth, like a tanagram,
let them form a completely new picture.
Light and dark, large and small, freedom and constraint
all take on new meaning as you consider
3.19 inches.
Smaller than the plastic cups in my cupboard, narrower than the sole of my sneakers,
smaller in diameter than a 40 ounce jar of super-chunky Jiff.
Spare batteries for your lights let you read now, and look each other in the eye,
but they cannot dispense the darkness created by tons of living rock crouching above you.
but they cannot dispense the darkness created by tons of living rock crouching above you.
Electronic devices cannot drown out the sounds you hear
when clutched within the damp, beating heart of the earth,
when clutched within the damp, beating heart of the earth,
with the entire world you know almost a mile over your head.
Oxygen forced down into the depths helps you to breathe
but does little to prevent the suffocating pressure of months of captivity
in a stone tomb,
in a stone tomb,
as above you, the rains fall and seasons turn,
your children grow, parents age.
3.19 inches.
All the things so cleverly disassembled, redesigned, re-thought by rescue teams above
to try to make it fit into a gift box of 3.19 inches
cannot give you the smell of rain, the curve of a baby’s cheek,
morning bird song, the color of twilight, a single glimpse of the sky.
Impossible riches, each of these.
But by grace, the human spirit, though wide as the sky
is a thing that knows no barriers .
Like air, it finds it way across the miles,
like a river, it wends its way even out from under mountains.
Like a weed, faith rises, tenacious and seeking from the dark earth.
Love and beauty can stretch, and twist, and fit somehow down that hole of 3.19 inches with room to spare
and find those 33 men imprisoned in a thousand ton sarcphagous of granite and gold
and turn the key and allow them, if they close their eyes,
to feel the touch of the wind on their cheeks.
Tracy Meisky is a poet, writer, singer, songwriter and all-around boat rocker from way back. Feel free to look around, but if you break it, you bought it.