Smoking in the girls’ room, sneaking a drink, napping
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Rose Whitmore’s writing has appeared or is forthcoming in The Iowa Review, Missouri Review, Fourth Genre, and Mid-American Review. She has played for the U.S. Women’s National Rugby Team, walked across Spain, and worked at an English-language newspaper in the Republic of Kosovo, but she longs to raise chickens in her backyard. She is working on a memoir and lives in San Diego, California.
The rush of wings produced a low sandpaper hum that was both intimidating and exhilarating. The thrum of a colony of bees is a sound that stays in your blood. It’s addicting. Spend time with bees, and you may develop a second heartbeat, an unmistakable constant pulse.
In rugby I find a clan of women who braid their hair tight to their scalps, who have tattoos and girlfriends and are fiercely loyal. They are my comrades on the field. They risk injury for me, and I do the same for them. Since women’s rugby is an underfunded club sport, we fight for field space, wake up early, play on the rocky public fields of Oakland.