Katabasis

Clare Gibb / V Mag at UVA

This is the night we never left behind.

A hotel roof and a pool. Stars above us drifting in and out of sight in unison with the city

lights below. Legs swaying under the surface, distance distorted by rippling motion. Green light.

Safely, I rise. Remember us, wrapped in suffocating summers, burning wrinkled skin on the

concrete. Remember us, drinking heavy humidity, swallowing water when we laugh, and it burns

our lungs. A plunge to the bottom, beating palms to scratched-red fish food in vain. If I had a

ceramic bowl and time, I would count every green-washed pebble as it skins our knees, but I

come up empty-handed. I come up without air. Paralyzed at the edge of the water, meters away, I

know the only way to save you is to follow—but when I was ten years old, I took a swim lesson

at the university pool. I stood at the edge of the diving board for minutes, legs shaking so hard I

thought I might throw up, and I slipped back down that ladder with shock-soaked hands faster

than the teacher could say, Dive! Now, remember us, bathing suits clinging to our skin with

perspiration and liquid bleach, mouths full of caustic hypochlorous acid and corneas

chlorine-red. Here I am, still a coward—measuring your life against the pounds of water pushing

you down, afraid the truth will swallow me whole. And you, with eyes turned to octopus ink and

strangling fishing lines pulled around your breathless neck. I stand on the edge of the diving

board, staring down at the depth marked 13’.

To my sister: I believe you. To my sister: I am sorry. Let me try again.