Swimming Lessons

Swimming Lessons

Last night, I felt the memory
of a gentle undertow
push me-pull me
until I fell asleep. Yesterday,
I swam in the topaz sea
remembering you, clutching me.
I arched my back, floated
on the surface like a cork
allowing the currents to guide me
while I watched a motionless
cloud streaked sky. Ripple
waves carried me, rise
and fall, rise and fall, and stained
my skin with salt. I began

to count the waves, like you taught me
knowing every seventh was the big one
On the seventh, the break line
crashed over my head, and
I tumbled, topsy-turvy
and breathless, until the water
subsided. Your hands never left
my hands and I watched,
salt stinging my open eyes
as ocean debris (kelp, shells,
bottle caps, rocks and wrappers)
ricocheted around me. I learned
this moment was inevitable
and temporary, so I waited it out.

Inside,I am still
that little girl
whose hands you held
in the choppy gray Pacific,
while we counted. My tiny feet
are still planted in soupy sand.
I am still counting waves
laughing and shrieking in joy
(and fear) as you and the ocean
lifted me. You tried to teach me
to respect the wide gray water, know
that it could change
smooth or rough, depending on the weather.

You served me well:
I am you buoyant
and watchful daughter, wiser
in the ways that everything
can change as it lifts me.