Wading - a prose poem
I sat on my bed, back pressed against the pictures on the wall, arms wrapped around my bent knees as if my body were a poorly-tied raft that would come unraveled if I didn’t hold it tightly together. I made myself close my eyes and listen to my breathing. No thoughts allowed. And so began my daily ritual as I forced myself to wade back into loneliness the way I forced myself to wade into the ocean as a child, too proud to appear afraid of the water. I dipped my feet in first, standing in place until they no longer felt the bone-chilling cold. Then, I walked in until the waves crashed against my thighs, then my stomach, then my chest - too fast for me to get used to the cold. That’s when I dived in and swam forward, too far submerged for it to matter much that the waves crashed into my face and my feet could no longer touch the bottom and I couldn’t even see the bottom and the salty water rushed into my nostrils until it felt like I was drowning. When I grew too tired to swim anymore, I let the waves carry me back to land, barely staying afloat.