I have a memory from my
childhood of standing poolside, and
someone running past me and
hitting me with their elbow or shoulder,
and being knocked into the
thick, muffling water.
I remember a lot of
flailing. I remember reaching for air.
I remember trying to find my
way back to the surface, and
calling for help – but my
were lungs already too full, and my sight dark.
I remember a splash and
being pulled up by my arms
and thrown onto my stomach
on the rough concrete.
I remember sputtering and coughing
up water, and
hoarse gasps, and the
endless emptying of lungs;
the weakness of my arms
trying to support my own weight;
the way fear wound its way
inside my mind.
I still don’t enjoy
swimming, whether in groups or alone.
I’m more comfortable with something
in between me and the water –
the buffer of air mattress
or board, kayak or boat;
the accessible option of a
dock or the beach.
It’s one thing to swim and
splash and play with my boys
in four feet of water at the
local YMCA –
it’s entirely another to
find yourself
floating without bearings in
the middle of a lake.
I ask my mother if this ever
happened, and she doesn’t know.
I can’t be bothered to ask
my father.
I question whether this
ghost of a memory is even real,
but I was scared of the
water for years.
Even when I was preparing to
be baptized,
I remember my discomfort
with being immersed.
It was more than simply
ceremony.
Some
water only seeks your death, not rebirth.
