The first time I stepped into salt water, I braced for pain— but the tide only licked my toes, tickled my ankles, softly curious, trying to take me in.
The second time, I could swim. It remembered. I let it float me.
It moved ahead, happy, pleading— Come down. My hands and legs obeyed.
I drifted beside it, with it, watched it study my stillness. I swam, unafraid, learning its shape so it could fit.
The third time, I was no longer a child. Life had anchored me— duty, divorce, cancer— my limbs heavy, bending to time.
This time, a community pool. Fresh water. Chlorine thick and stinging. It yanked me under.
I was drowning until my brother dragged me to the lip of a ledge I could hold.
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