The Moment You Can’t Reach Again; Vignette Anthology | 2021

The Sound of The Sea

I step onto the edge of the boat teetering from both the uneven rocking and the weight as heavy as boulders on my back. The sun and wetsuit are hot against my skin, the heat and frisky fabric rubbing in random places causing an itch as unreachable as a dish too high on a shelf to grab. My heart begins to thump like something inside of me is stomping around with heavy boots causing my arm to shake and my joints go weak. “Jump!” the instructor shouts. My hands flitter and twitch, and then I jump in holding my nose.

I crash into the water, and I can feel it rise around me. For one split second, I feel absolutely nothing. My breath stops; I can't feel my fingers or toes. Then, I snap back. Every inch of my skin starts to feel the water flooding my wetsuit. An unfamiliar cold creeps all over my body and covers my face, and the warmth inside of me twists and turns. Then, I break through the surface of the water. The silence is gone, the moment I know I can’t reach again. Above the surface, gravity feels real again and wet strands of hair cling to the front of my face like the tentacles of an octopus.  

I grasp as tightly as I can onto the rope leading to the bottom. I put my face into the water and the back of my neck tightens as a gust of wind swooshes over my freezing wet skin. I adjust my mouthpiece and can taste the salty water. Slowly, I start to sink. Streams of reflective, squishy bubbles crowd my vision, and I can hear a steady whooshing of my breath, almost metallic as if my lungs are tin cans. As I go down, I look up at the sky, now covered with a lens of light blue, the edges of my vision darken and turn into a deep tunnel of fantastic blues. I descend like a piece of paper floating to the ground. One of my flippers reaches the bottom, and a white blanket of fine grains of sand swirl around me, settling to reveal a landscape full of color and life. 

Hundreds of silvery fish swim in a pack, a changing cloud of glittering silver, each a different reflection of light. Corals of red covered with a frosty layer of sand hint at movement, flashes of blue and green fins. And my skin isn't cold any longer. All I can feel is the airy support of the water. All I can see is the beautiful blur of magical fish. All I can hear is the sound of the sea.

Pockets

Whenever I reach into my pocket, I can’t help but wonder if I left something in it. Something precious, not necessarily to someone else, but something that only glitters in my sight. I always forget about my pockets, they hide, become dull, fade into the background, and they hold things for me. They held my favorite ring, they held 20 dollars, and they held as much candy as I could stuff into them at a birthday party. Reliable and sturdy. 

I reach into my pocket and a finger, just a finger, finds something, and I am greeted with a flush of serendipity. I feel a little shiver of excitement. So many questions, it could be paper with feathery frayed edges and soft crinkled folds, or a shiny plastic wrapper, creased and crackly. Fishing out treasures, Like a dog finding a bone hidden away under the dirt. It’s a ticket from the amusement park that took a lifetime of a car ride to get to, or just a soft crumpled napkin I shoved into my pocket, patiently waiting to be used after getting ice cream, but was worn and torn in a flurry of washing machine bubbles. Every time, even if only for a second, I relive the lighthearted memory. The blazing sun flooding sidewalks with light, the smell of hot juicy pizza wafting from across the street, or the sticky sweet texture of sugar, glueing my fingers together

But sometimes pockets don’t hold my things for me. In the winter, the bitter cold nipped at my hands with teeth of ice. Immediately I shoved my hands into those pockets. The soft cloud-like fabric of my jacket protected the tips of my fingers from the piercing cold dragon of frost. In a classroom full of newly acquainted strangers, unease slithered through my veins, a cold sweat on my palms. My fingers flinched and fluttered like the wings of a hummingbird. Automatically, I shoved my hands into the pockets of my worn out jeans. My angst had traveled to my hands. I clenched my fingers where they were hidden from the world. The thick but smooth fabric hugged the sides of my fingers, squeezing them with a friendly, comforting grip . They held my hands. It took me back to the same morning where I had merrily eaten toast, slugged down a cold glass of milk, and wiped my moist fingers on the same rough but loved soft pockets. My hands loosened then relaxed, wiggling free of the pockets that held my hand. 

I Flew

My heart thumped wildly as the jolting ski lift brought me closer and closer to the top of the slope. My hands were slick with cold sweat as I grabbed onto the safety bar, wrangling it in fear. I wriggled my finger to find any feeling, but the numbness of the icy day turned them into feelingless flesh. The cold wind creeped it’s way into the cuffs of my thick ski jacket, slithering up and around my neck, choking me. As I went up higher and higher, floating upon the thick chilly air, brisk piercing breezes cut into my cheek, turning my face to cold marble. My feet hung heavy with the weight of two ski’s, like a tree groaning with the burden of sweet overripe fruit. Bright white powdery snow 30 feet below me glared at me with dazzlingly glittering eyes. The glow of bright white almost blinding, the gleaming downy blanket almost forbidding me to look at it.  

Everytime I looked down I grew short of breath, as if my lungs had shrunk to a size fit for ants. As I sat still, everything swirled around me, the thoughts of falling consumed me.  I was a tiny plastic figurine inside a snow globe, existing to be shaken by the force of fear. As I looked down each person on the slope had turned to colorful dots, each leaving carving a little story into the snow. The clumsy 6 year old left an uneven line, each curve shaded with a hint of uncertainty. The tall mom, drawing, brief slender “S” curved lines, each time she turned, a precise time, decided by years of knowledge and wisdom. 

I looked back up abruptly as the chair jolted, swinging back and forth. The top of the hill became clearer, making me vividly aware that I would get off soon. A new experience of slipping on icy hills, closer. A brand new fear, closer. A petrifying gliding I had no control of, closer. I hid behind my closed eyes, terrified that I had to venture down the unknown territory of that hill. We had finally reached our destination, the top of the slope. As I got up I hit the compacted, ski ridden, snow with a thud. I was floating on a cloud of anxiety as I made my way over to the edge of the hill. I looked over, the steep slope taunting me with depth and the sound of skis scraping on ice. I teetered on the edge back and forth, like a fragile glass on the side of a table about to drop. I let out a gasp in shock as I felt a gloved hand push me. I looked back, my face mixed with anger and terror, my brother’s face held back a chuckle. I slid my skii’'s out of control, disobeying me no matter what I did. My legs criss - crossed and weaved, like a tangled thread, all the while my face was frozen in shock. But then, somehow, I knew what to do. I straightened and all of a sudden, I flew. I flew across the soft powdery snow. I flew, creating a bold new set of lines, written in ice. I flew, weaving in between strangers and trees.  And I flew, forgetting that I ever was scared.