Northport, Alabama

And so the flood waters recede, leaving the usual muck. If I had any sense, I’d stop fighting the riptides. I’d hold my breath a little longer. Let go of the shoreline mirage and let myself drift, farther and farther out towards the horizon until I was so far away that nothing could bring me home.

But no.

I grasp at driftwood, dig my hands into the mud, let myself be blindsided by the same waves over and over and over again.

I’ve never been able to swim. It’s a running joke in my family that it doesn’t matter. I’m not about to drown. Too much body fat. Throw me in the water and I’m ass-up within seconds, like a duck. It’s funny. Everyone laughs. I laugh too sometimes.

But my head is under water, I think to myself. I can’t breathe. I don’t say anything. It would mess up the joke.

“You’re drowning in two feet of water,” he tells me. “Stand up.”

I rarely bother. It rocks the boat too much. Either way, I end up under water.

I stare into the mud and ponder the irony. I’m not drowning. I’m just upside down. Is this the part where I start laughing hysterically until the tears fall? Or is this the part where I try to blank my mind out enough to remember how to breathe? I’m never quite sure.

Posted on April 20, 2006 by Carmen K. Sisson tagged Alabama, blue, Northport, water, writing