chiu draws

water’s edge (or, lucid dreaming)

You feel the wind on your shoulders the salt on your cheeks, water’s edge at the tip of your fingers—deep breath, one, two and you take the plunge. Water graces the sinewy length of your forearms, to your shoulders, to your back, past the base of your neck and to the back of your head; you feel its weight grasping your ponytail and dragging it in upward crescendo to the surface as you move through the water languidly, slowly, towards the deep end, blanket of liquid rippling through and across the gills at the back of your neck as you inhale, exhale, at the cold rush of water washing over your limbs.

Swimming has always been your forte, even if you could never grasp for the feel of water and move it with the same grace and precision as your warm, calm mother (you only ever managed tiny splashes that earned you the curiosity of the other kids growing up). It calms you to: hear the rhythm of your breathing underwater as you close your eyes at the rippling sunlight at the surface; to feel your heavy body (muscles built over the years through discipline and the desire to get stronger for the sake of your community, your family) feel weightless, suspended in a blue equilibrium; to feel the tiny scales on your lower back react to the water sifting around your quiet form underwater; to remind you of who you are and where you came from and the element that your culture absorbs, graces, and worships.