Wednesday, August 22, 2012

The Bottom of the Ocean

“Should I run it as credit or debit?” says the lady at the register.
“Credit is fine,” I say. 

Below me is the bottom of the ocean.  I swim to this place several times a day to escape and restore.  I sit here on the floor of the sea with my sons, all three of them.  My husband sits beside me and these three boys crawl over and around us, pushing back sand with their bare feet, climbing up our backs to wrap their arms around our necks.  They are weightless and ageless, bound only by the cloudy walls of perfect peace.  The hum of the water flows over, under and through us, drowning out the white noise of the world, a world we hardly remember here beneath the glass surface.  The current rocks and rolls us, and our hair rises gracefully to form crowns above our heads, floating coral for rubies and passing shells for emeralds.  We are buoyed by satisfied longing and grounded by faith become sight.  Together we dance in space, no longer strapped to time’s boundaries, free from linear life.  Water insulates us with the steady pressing of hearts ablaze and silenced groans. Submission to the tides comes naturally like breath and we breathe together, in, out, up, down, through and around. Our breath sends ripples throughout the sea, our love echoing throughout its silvery halls.  I catch the ripples and the echoes and drop them deep into my pocket, so that I might always carry with me the bottom of the ocean.   

“I just need your signature,” she says to me.
“Oh, yes.  I’m sorry,” I say, suddenly awakened by the fluorescent lights of the Super Target.  I take the blue pen to sign my name, and I feel my toes become wet.  For water falls steady like rain from my pockets.