In the water, I am
12 again. Or maybe 25
or 40, but younger.
Definitely younger.
I float in weightlessness,
my face just above the
surface. My head tilts
to the right, and the water
is at my eye, lapping at
the lashes, rising and
falling against my cheek,
the recognition of an old
friend.
I tilt my head back until
only the blowhole of my
mouth feels the breeze. I take
a breath and sink, turn,
glide, rest my tummy on the
bottom, twirl again with rudder
arms and duck paddle feet,
look up at filtered sun,
remembering the summers
of childhood, diving
for pennies, rocking
the inner tube,
handstands.
Water remembers. Water feels
what I have known, where I have
been. It is an intimate friend,
welcoming me back, holding
me up, carrying so much of
the weight of me.
Deb Moore 