One. Two. Clear.

One. Two. Clear. 

The dark begins to fade.

Here it comes again.

One. Two. Clear.

I would like to go swimming,

maybe in Florida.

We’ll bring her this time.

How does she look now?

She’ll splash us.

The water would hit me like needles.

Penetrating under the surface.

I don’t know if she’ll like the beach.

I don't know what she likes.

The sand is like glass.

Walking barefoot would make me bleed

and turn the sand a strange maroon color.

One. Two. Clear.

What does she like?

My other kids love jet skiing

in the big blue ocean.

We could play this game.

I can go under water for a while.

Longer. Longer.

One. Two. Clear.

My lungs are about to burst

like the balloon I bought her those years ago.

It popped and reminded me of

a deflated kidney tied to a string.

I remember her crying.

I didn’t buy her a new one.

I guess I can come up for air now.

One. Two. Clear.

This time the water in my lungs

tastes like blood.

Stabilizing.

I wish the darkness would come back.