Deep dive

I’m feeling a bit jagged, pointy, flat. Angular. Feeling itchy, frothy, twitchy. Not flowy and zesty but bare, burnt, crispy. Not orange but moss green. Not floaty and sprinkly with cherries but like gravy, thick and hot and slow. Like dark soil. Like a sharp cuticle. Like a rusty blade. A broken chain. Crumbs in a tupperware, a memory of heavenly white floury slices with creamy yellow cheddar. I’m the flat, empty plastic sleeve of an ice pop, drained of its neon liquid. The edge of an old wooden picnic bench. A nail bent. A frame loose. Exhaust untethered. Summer in remiss. Flow beyond grasp.

I feel like I’m ankle deep in a shallow paddling pool, biding time, wiping counters and loading another cup into the dishwasher. But when, I wonder. When will it be safe to dive deep, and swim around underneath, where it’s dark, and uncertain, and new. And float there, and be there, with time enough to put all the pieces together.

There is not enough time to turn to poetry the stuff of everyday, because I am in the shallow, you see. Chickens with mohawks. The smell of fresh mint in the garden. The way my son calls the guy next door ‘John Neighbour’ like it’s his full name. How I let my eldest dye her hair pink and how the sun glistens off the awful magenta tips. Moot, bramble, thicket. Fresh lemonade. Fresh eggs. Sour cherries. A waiting room in the notes app on my phone, with no destination. Triage is closed.

An old enamel bathtub sits lopsided in a field, and here is my chance - describe the scene - wildflowers. Small chubby legs of two four year olds. Female companionship. Pears. Marjoram.

And later, under a cotton candy sky, camping chairs in a circle, smoke ribbons, the crackle of a fire, and chinese whispers brings me back Tesco originals had Bradley which was originally The rhododendrons of Manderley but, concerned there was no time to get out my paper, and my pen, and really weave it into something so perfect, instead I tell myself this: you are not a writer.

I jump into the passenger seat of my friend’s Ford transit headed for anywhere. A towel, a Coke, a handful of summer anecdotes. Swim togs. After tumbling in and rinsing our souls in the buttery cool, silky water, and after the weeds chased our legs and we squealed and shrieked at the thrill of it. After we locked eyes, knowing this was it. The deep dive. After two herons swooped low across the other side of the lake, I pushed my body up onto the wooden pier, feeling strong and bare, beached like a whale, exclaiming don’t look at me, shuddering and inching forwards, vulnerable, exposed. And after wrapping a crispy towel around my lower half reaching under her arms, and after hauling her out, grasping wet thigh and prickly armpit, slippery flesh, kneeling, jaw aching from laughter. After that we gazed out across the lake and pointed towards the sky and she says what are you writing about these days.

I say, it’s so hard. I feel what I want to say is just beyond reach. It seems so deep down, I can’t swim far enough to reach it.

I know what you mean, she says, tucking hair behind ear. Slurping lukewarm soda.

It’s like I need to go past this reef of sadness, bills, hormones, imposter syndrome, shame, fear, grief, motherhood, two guinea pigs, my tax bill, my bank account, dinner, magnesium, the 11+, my marriage, my broken laptop, I say. So many layers, she says. Layers and layers. And this constant nagging feeling that I should just pick up my pen and goddamn write it all down, but there’s so much to say.

Even the feeling of writing stops me from writing.

I know what you mean, she says.

We look out across the sky, the water, our feet.

I wonder how deep the water is, she says.