MEMORIES

Memories. Sitting in the knee-deep Caribbean water that’s so blue-green, washing out the inside of my mask, where little dry sand grains have been stuck to the interior side of the glass since last time; the black rubber strap hot against my skin, after sitting in the sun all morning. Rolling forward with a big breath, arms moving out wide, gliding while sinking onto the sandy bottom. Looking up at the silver surface, the other side of the ocean, familiar in a sense, but inverted, its little waves going down instead of up. Movement...constant, incremental movement. It’s so bright, the light inside the molten surface. I looked at that for hours as a kid. Was mesmerized. Went into the water to look up, not down.

I’m in the middle part of life now -- was a child, am a parent. Still remain my parent’s child. I can look both ways. The ocean is two surfaces, bounds two worlds, that touch. You can see from one side to the other, but with a bent sight, your plumb not quite right for that. It has been so great to see my kids seeing the world, to relive its enormity and wonder.

My twelve-year old daughter is changing on me. Some days she’s still my baby girl. Oh, how I want to put my hand through the silver surface, go back, grab all that blue water and circle it up in my arms, embrace it, immovable, forever. Fall forward and be immersed again. But it can’t be held that way, exactly. We’re always on one side or the other, the light crossing.