In the water

In response to Roisin O’Gorman’s “The Ontogenetic Body”

When I was a child I moved a lot. My parents divorced and my mother followed the work, escaped the past. She tells me we lived in a basement apartment without a bathtub once, so she bought a kiddie pool to bathe me in, sea creatures on the sides. You could always find me there with or without water she said, pretending to be in the ocean.

Recently, she moved again, this time from a small community where most my formative memories lie, on a beach with an expansive lake, no visible other side. I remember always wanting her to swim with me, but she preferred the sand and a book and a beer, complaining the water was too cold, always too cold. That didn’t stop me from going in the water. The temperature didn’t seem to register on my skin. The sensation of swimming, of diving, of jumping with the waves was all I could feel. I could swim out there in the no temperature lake on my own for hours, so I did. The feeling of swimming would accompany me to my bed at night, the room uneven in motion until I fell asleep, my dreams rocking back and forth, back in the water.

I was writing one summer, the summer before she moved. Partly out of a need for quiet and privacy to write on my own, and partly out of a deep rooted longing for that house to stay mine, I spent a week alone there turning out pages, and swimming. One evening I got there at that perfect time when the sun and the moon are battling it out in the horizon at the end of waves. My body moved through the water like my childhood dreams, watching the celestial orbs moving through space and time. The no temperature water started to feel a little cold that time.

“We’ve Never Properly Met Though” by Taylor at her dining room table

This is in response to Julia Pileggi’s post yesterday at These Five Minutes
Writing Date: Monday, April 3rd, 2017
Writing Time: 8:43am
Timed Writing: 10 minutes (no edits!)
The quote is a “writing dip” selected from a text

Image result for drawing of train

We wouldn’t know why we were at the train station until we got there. Our oldest brother Levi’s letter just instructed us to arrive at the station together at 2pm without any clues as to why, but in a taxi on the way there we of course made a few guesses as to what our wanderlust brother was up to. Our taxi sparked with that feeling only our brother Levi could inspire: confused anticipation.

“He’s probably out of money,” said Meagan, my younger, ever afraid of a world not clearly dividable by numbers, sister.  Understanding came in the form of organization and clockwork to Meagan, so my younger brother Mark and I mostly dismissed her predictable opinions on everything.

“Levi’s always had too much money if anything,” I said which was true. The charm that beamed out of him was the kind that seemed to inspire even the most destitute of person’s charity. Money often flew at him without the giver ever being aware of its departure.

I explained my theory that our brother had either found our mother or maybe she had found him somehow while he was wandering through Thailand, but Mark had his own thoughts on what Levi was about to spring on us.

“He’s getting rid of the house and he wants our blessing.” Mark was the kind of man who could never get over his childhood and always felt imagined pressure from others to let it go. Ever since Levi was given our parent’s home when Dad died a few years ago, Mark has been on guard for the day Levi would try to tear the walls of nostalgia away from him.

When we got to the train station, when we saw Levi, he didn’t look like he’d seen our mother, or sold our house, or was out of money. When we opened the car door to let him in, he instead invited us to get out of the cab.

“Get on a train with me,” was what he said, “I have something to show you.”