How to Learn to Play Pool

I've been scared to play pool since he tried to teach me.

I used to think he was such a great teacher, and I told him so, but, really,

fear is a great motivator. He made me feel like I was hard to teach, hard to handle,

hard to love. I never tried to play pool again.

When you asked me if I wanted to play, I said yes without thinking. I forgot I was scared to learn,

beacause you don't scare me. When we got to the bar, I remembered

his firm and prodding voice I once mistook for comfort. But trauma had already taken so much, and I wanted to learn from you.

I told you I was nervous, and everything you did after

that moment, showed me you cared. No rigidity in sight, you taught me and learned from me at the same time. The awkwardness of the cue in my hands,

fixed by the way you held me

from behind, and guided my movements up and over the learning curve. The gentle click of balls hurdling into each other

used to cause me anxiety, but the smoothness of your voice

drifted over the balls and settled, transforming them

into mesmerizing background noise.

The colors danced

in the low light, and so did your eyes as you watched me get better at holding, and aiming, and hitting without missing. I was convinced I was so bad at pool,

but he was bad at being there for me.

My body brushing the table, turning the cue in my hands, leaning into you in between turns, pool and comfort moved closer together, and I watched something traumatic

become something triumphant. Pool used to make me

so uncomfortable, but you taught me that

comfort

can be found anywhere

with the right teacher.