Originally published in Cerasus Magazine
Salty spray smacks both bony knees. Shrieking in delight, four-year-old me retreats to my smiling dad, churning foam and sand as I muscle through. From shore, mom watches, perfect-posture regal. A pale hand shades her roving eyes. She’ll pounce if things get bad. White froth cups and tugs my browned skin. I giggle, like usual, prying gritty tresses off wet teeth. Dad laughs, like usual, urging me to stand tall. I wobble upright on gangly legs until the lurking surge snags my ankles and cuts me into a tangle of knotty limbs. I flail then fall flat, gasping for the breath to return amid the crashing surf now muffling my cries of “No!” My heart hammers through my black jacket – the first thing I saw in the closet when I was awakened hours earlier. The pounding fills my ears when through the sliders he approaches, green from neck to feet. We waited forever for him, but now the surgeon scares me. I know he knows our future. Tanned weathered hands hook under twig arms to pull me through the thundering waves. “No more,” I announce. “You’re okay, sweetheart,” dad assures. I grip her white thin hand wondering how I will know, waiting for the breath to return amid the beeps and pulses now muffling my cries. Til the nurse looks at us and nods. And I let go. “You’re okay,” dad whispers, my arms wound round his neck. “Now you know for next time.”
Today dad and I dig our calloused heels into dark packed sand, just the two of us. Flip flops in hand, I skirt the curling water. Now it’s just cold. I never look to the shore. His dark eyes study my bowed head.
“You okay, sweetheart?”
I nod.
Now I know.
For next time.