The Seabed

You’ve romanticized this moment. You watch the ocean, teary-eyed. You don’t think. You just walk. The height of the water rises from your ankles to your calves to your knees to your hips. Once it reaches your shoulders, you inhale deeply. It feels a little too familiar. A little too peaceful.

You’re awake in the same spot you’ve been for hours. At a desk, typing documents out of habit. There’s no meaning unless it requires depth. You’re back underwater with a weight strapped to you. An elderly homeless man plays Chopin’s Étude Op. 10, No. 3 while you sink. Life becomes a breath, a cold warmth, an endless painting made by God’s brush. Blue. Deep blue. Blue that’s kissed darkness one too many times.

Your wife will find another. She’ll grieve you, hugging your clothes to smell your existence. Her new man will be good to her. But she’ll hide from him that she sees you when touched. Your mother will mourn you more than she mourned your father. She thought she’d go before you. That’s how it w…