the deep end.

it’s like diving into the deep end, this beginning. the start of something is always so slow and tender, even if you both know better. there are hurdles to clear and baggage to negotiate, and yet,

you jump.

your swan dive is clumsy and needs refining. you’ll spend hours at the pool, plunging into the water again and again until the motions make sense, until you can sing a song in your head and dive at the same time— then you’ll know you have it memorized. i used to do the same thing when i was trying to learn my lines, back in the days before i met you. i would write them out over and over again, stopping only when the melody running through my brain was complete. if i got distracted, if i couldn’t properly remember, i would begin again.

the water is cold but the chlorine burns the insides of your nostrils, your eyes, which you always, inexplicably, keep open. you don’t miss a single moment. dripping wet, you clamber up the side of the pool, your right shoulder stinging where it came into contact with the calm, clear surface that ripples and wrinkles now where you disrupted it. the pool is closed off for diving practice, and no one has noticed you’re not supposed to be here. they’ll discover you weeks from now, when your form is perfect, when you’re ready to move on to something else.

"good at everything, great at nothing," you’ve said, but i disagree. i have seen you meet the deep end, have seen you plunge from the highest platform through the surface in a smooth, perfect arc. time stops and i hold my breath, like i’m expecting the waiting water to solidify, for you to come crashing down to the earth. with hardly a splash, with no fanfare at all, there you are, wriggling towards the side of the pool, successful, beaming.

and here we are, tangled up in your towel and each other, your hair damp and smelling sharply of sweat and pool water, and i’m holding you tighter and tighter and i don’t ever want this moment to end, and i don’t ever want to let you go.

it’s like diving into the deep end, this beginning.
and here we are, tangled up in the blankets and each other, and i can hear your heartbeat from where my head rests on your chest. another breath in and i don’t move a muscle because i know you’re falling asleep, slipping away from me even though your sweat is still silky on my skin. i will be right here, all of my limbs tingling from holding so still, when you wake, when you climb towards me, successful, beaming.

the start of something, so slow and tender, is the rise and fall of your chest as you sleep here curled in my arms. here we are, clumsy and imperfect, and i hope you never deem yourself “great" at me. stay good, stay right here, dive into the deep end.

i’ll be there, waiting.

i can see the sunrise glittering off the lake as i get closer and closer, running with all my might. the breeze is in my hair and chilling the tips of my fingers and i can barely feel my feet in their heavy winter socks as they hit the ground one after the other, slipping and crunching through the frosty grass. my shoes have long ago been forgotten, left to fend for themselves somewhere between my front door and here, on the road to paradise.

the world is waking up slowly, reluctantly. the trees take deep breaths of fresh morning air and the first glimpses of flowers are visible under the cold hard winter soil. all of these are precious pieces of the puzzle we call Spring, and every organism shyly turns its face toward the sun, grateful for its warmth. we have all been waiting.

i am freezing and laughing and spinning and my feet hit the ground so delicately it feels like i might somehow take flight, be momentarily relieved of gravity. i can see the dock in the distance, shiny with early morning frost and bathed in the orange light that can only be found right here, in this tiny town, right now, at five forty-seven in the morning. I’m shouting and whooping and running for it, knowing just what i’m going to do.

off comes my long skirt. it falls to the ground in an unceremonious heap and sulks, silently begging me to let it come along. my thighs, exposed, are icy hot and turn scarlet as the capillaries break, as serotonin floods my brain. i am giddy and young and free.

my blouse is up over my head and i fight a short, spirited battle, trying desperately to wrestle myself loose. i hear a sharp tear and know i will mourn this later but right now i’m running and moving and all i can think of is the water; how it will feel as it wraps around my breasts and ankles and knees and hair.

i unclasp my bra and, hopping and stumbling like a lunatic, pull off my heavy socks one by one. i shriek as my bare toes come into contact with the earth, and i know there isn’t any moment more beautiful, more meaningful than this one. i loop my thumbs through the lace of my underwear and pull it off with a sharp tug. i step over it, breathing hard, and pause.

this is the world. i am in it. i am a part of this vast expanse, part of this heartbreaking landscape that is too big and beautiful for my tiny heart to comprehend. my breath makes small clouds in front of me and i am contributing to the atmosphere, adding my own carbon dioxide, a gift to the earth. my groin is cold and timid, not used to this exposure, this all-encompassing cold.

i am on the dock, shivering and jumping up and down to keep my blood moving. my arms are spread wide and my face is pointed up towards the rising sun, now golden and malleable, warming the tip of my nose and my frozen eyelashes. i count to three, quickly and silently, knowing i have to move or the moment, this delicious opportunity, will pass.

and i am flying through the air, through that magical unrepeatable space between land and water. i’m laughing and flailing and i can’t believe i am so lucky.

the water hits me hard, covering every inch of me and encompassing each of my molecules. my vision leaves me for a moment and i am sinking towards the bottom, propelled by a momentum, an energy that is all my own. and then i am swimming towards the surface, kicking wildly, waiting for breath, for that inscrutable confirmation that i am, in fact, so very alive.

my face breaks the surface first. my hair, which i have been growing for years, is sticking to my bare skin all the way down my back. i let my feet float to the surface and i’m lying there, my bellybutton pointed towards the sky, towards god, and i’m suddenly singing at the top of my lungs. out from the deepest part of myself comes this song, this prayer, and i could not stop it if i tried.

twenty-two years ago, my little sister was born. i remember it like it was yesterday; my dad pulling me out of preschool and taking me in his big black truck to the hospital to see her for the first time. i had a gift with me: a yellow humpty dumpty doll that jingled with every step i took. when my mom tells this story, she always mentions that she knew we had arrived when she heard that jingling coming down the hall, clunking along with my excited three-year-old footsteps. 

i am the oldest child. according to all of the parenting books, seeing one’s mother in a hospital bed post-birth can be a bit traumatic, and it is recommended that the new baby be brought in only after the first child is assured that mom is okay. dutifully, my mom had our brand new little girl whisked out of the room with the nurse when she heard that telltale jingling tottering down the hall. when i burst into the room, a flurry of unruly curls and baby fat, i glanced at my mom, scoped out the room, and, noticing the glaring omission, declared, “WHERE IS SHE? WHERE IS MY SISTER?”

this is how i feel even now in the minutes before we’re reunited, whether it’s been days or months since we were last together. an unparalleled stirring of excitement starts deep down in my stomach and rises quickly to surface, causing me to grin like a crazy person, jump up and down, and partake in spontaneous and (probably) embarrassing impromptu dance parties. my sister. my heart. my lilly will be here soon. 

back in 1989, my mom and dad beamed at each other and summoned the nurse. moments later, a tiny, hairy, gurgling ball of life was placed into my anxious toddler arms. that first contact, skin to skin, sister to sister, sealed us together for eternity. even as a three-year-old i understood the significance: i would never be alone again. with a deep breath, my little chest swelled up with pride. gazing down at her, i accepted my new role, my new responsibility, my new life:

“little sister,” i promised, “i’m going to love you forever.”

today, little lilly is twenty-two years old and about to graduate from one of the most prestigious photography schools in the country. she is engaged to a wonderful man and has a dog named prints that she loves to bits. she is clumsy and beautiful, unique and talented, sensitive and strong, and is the only person who can make me laugh so hard i spit champagne all over the dinner table. she is like no one else, forever an incredibly individualistic and limitlessly radiant being. she is the keeper of my secrets, the key to my heart, and there is not a single day during which i am not endlessly, wordlessly, completely thankful for that day, november sixth, 1989, when she was first placed into my arms. 

happy birthday, lilly. i love you always.

november.

it’s cold here.

it’s one of those days where one has to dig deep into herself to find the warmth she stored there in august for safekeeping. supplies are scarce among my belongings  and my feet are itching to carry me outside, to move quickly and without direction in search of contact. the frosty air bites at my nose and fingertips as i stand on the corner, watching. 

the sun rises and sets. people walk on the highline and make out in movie theaters and share tapas at the tiny place down the street. they sip cappuccinos out of red holiday cups and get flu shots and daydream about each other at work. they bundle up carefully and run to the liquor store to pick up sparkling wine to celebrate nothing at all. 

it’s the lovers that make things spin here. the sidewalk craves their footsteps, sighing as fancy shoes meet pavement. they move carefully but deliberately, lighting up the city, maintaining its energy supply.

the city is cold and bare but it’s warm there, pressed between those bodies. their warmth is contagious, infecting every innocent passerby, planting a tiny seed of heat somewhere deep in their chests that will burst forth when they’re least expecting it, taking the form of a shy smile or a held door. this heat, these moments of compassion spread slowly, lighting up the world as the sun rises and sets, as we continue to turn and turn.