When something comes to an end

When something comes to an end, your body knows it first, like a hound before a quake. The great tide of life is moving, already unmistakably in your cells. It is the person who doesn’t want to know, who clings on, even as the ship is floating away, convinced that anything, anything is better than having to swim in the deep blue sea. The ship has sailed. It inches away. On deck, waving to you are the ghostlike figures of the life you thought was you. A particular constellation of memories, places, smells and people, already thinning in the light.

And here you are. Someone has pushed you off. It might even have been you. The bigger you, the one who knows that you can swim. The sea is colder than you expected, but not entirely unpleasant. You feel your breath, fast and furious. Your skin is alive from contact with the water. Your feet can kick. That’s something. Little by little they push you forward until –awkward and flailing no more- you find grace in their motion and buoyancy in your limbs.

You are alive. The water holds you.

You are alive. The water holds you.

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