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I used to sink, to wonder what made things float. Threw sticks in streams and raced them down the banks on little scratched up legs. Stomped through every mud puddle, drank from the hose. Swam to the dock and practiced holding my breath underneath it. Felt my skin grow softer in water. Learned to float on my back, the blue bowl of an upside down sky caving over me, juicy dented blue thick below me, waves. Got lost in the middle of Lake Washington for three hours with my best friend one summer. Giant boats asking if we needed help and we declined. Scared and soggy, we swam into the wind, sunburnt and going nowhere with an army issue inflatable raft leaking air. The shore we departed from no longer in sight and our muscles weary and worried. My father sending the search and rescue. Being pulled in, rescued, redeemed. I used to bathe in mist of waterfall, succumb to chlorinated deep ends. My father’s old house with the huge clawfoot tub, no shower. You could fill the tub to your chest and soak like seaweed. This house I have now has a tiny tub I have to fold myself into. To rinse the residue of another day alive.
