To Dive Again

We lay in the shade of the willow. You’re on the red scratchy picnic blanket with my head pressed to your chest. Our eyes close listening to the sounds of nature: chirping frogs, rustling reeds, the hiss of cicadas. They are an orchestra lulling me to sleep, along with the thumping of your heart. The rise and fall of your chest. Your breath rustles my hair like wind, and your body molds around me like moss.

I imagine this is what it's like being swaddled and rocked as an infant.

A splash crashes like cymbals.

Boys jump from a rope tied to a tree. Their bodies plunge into the water, and when their heads resurface they shake like dogs, laughter filling the air. Your lips curve into a smile.

“Remember when we used to do that?” You ask me.

I sit up and squint to watch as another flips into the water.

“Of course I remember,” I reply. “You couldn’t dive. Not one bit. Your legs were always bent back.”

“Yes, and I still can’t dive.”

“But you can flop.”

“Well, sure anyone can flop.” You say and you let out a deep laugh, which makes me laugh too.

You wrap your arms around me tightly as another dives into the water. Your attention is on the lake, but I’m focused on you. Your curls are a glowing halo on your head, skin kissed with sun, and eyes clear and aware. You looked this way every time we’d come down to the lake. So vivid and bright. I store those moments at the front of my memory. They feel safest there. Because they’re always looping in my mind. So much so there is little room for anything else.

“Let’s go down by the water,” you say. You’re pulling at my arm.

I shake my head and wipe away the sweat dripping from my forehead. The sun had started to beat down through the shade of the tree. The wind stopped blowing and the quiet sounds were now overrun by laughter.

“Come on. It’s sweltering out here.” You tug my arm again.

Snatching my arm away, I give my head another shake.

“No. Nope. I want to stay here.”

I cross my arms over my chest and sit up straight.

“Come on,” you say with a pout. “Don’t you want to go look at the water? Maybe even go for a swim?”

A fly buzzes by my head. I swat at it.

“No. I just want to look at you.” I say, with a small, short-lived smile.

“Give me a break! I’m not so interesting. I’m the same as I’ve always been.”

I look back at the lake, but only for a second.

“Why can’t you come with me?”

I hold out my hand to you.

“You know I can’t,” you say softly, not taking my hand. “Go on. Go jump in.”

I frown, and open my mouth to argue, but I'm interrupted by another echoing splash. This time it’s a girl with pigtails who dove in. I watch her swim back to go again with a big grin spread across her face. She waits in line and watches the boys do tricks into the water. When it's her turn she doesn’t touch the rope. Sliding her goggles onto her eyes she plants her feet firmly onto the mossy edgy, aligns her arms straight over her head, and pushes off in a perfect arch into the water. When she resurfaces she looks around to see if anyone saw. No one's watching. Except for me. We lock eyes and smile at each other before she swims back.

“Did you see that girl? She reminds me of…” I turn to tell you, but you’re gone, and I spot you walking down the dirt path. I gather up the blanket and scramble after you. We walk for a while in silence. The path is muddy from rain the night before. I leap over puddles to catch up with you. The laughter from the lake slowly begins to fade as it trails behind us.

“What’s wrong? Where are you going?” I ask you.

“You know… I think it's time for me to leave.” Your voice sounds distorted, like you’re underwater.

“What? Why?” My throat tightens and my hands clench. I'm walking faster, but you’re still ahead of me.

“You don’t seem happy… is that my fault?” You whisper.

“No! Don’t be silly.”

“But you didn’t want to go swimming. Why? You love to swim.”

I shrug. “I just didn’t feel like it.”

“You can’t lie to me. Not anymore. I know what you want. And I’m holding you back. Admit it.”

We stop in the middle of the path. I look at you and the sun is so bright it's as if you are a shadow staring back at me. I blink, trying to clear my mind, but all I see is the lake. I see myself beneath the surface of the water.

“Don’t say that… I… I need you,” I say, squeezing my eyes shut.

When I open my eyes again, your face is just a swirl of color where your features blur together like smudges on a canvas. I try to think of your laugh, but I can’t remember. Or your smile. Or the way your hair looked after a windy day. Why can’t I remember? I go to pull out my phone to play the voicemail you left me a year ago, but my hand trembles and it slips, falling into a puddle.

I stare at the water as it slowly settles, my reflection taking shape, and an emptiness fills my chest. Just the trees, the sky, and me. Alone. You’re nothing but a whisper at the back of my mind.

After fishing my phone from the puddle I head back down to the lake.

At the water’s edge I shift my feet firmly into the moss.

Stretch my arms to the sky.

I dive in, letting the water swallow me whole, before I resurface with a smile.