Larissa
Shmailo
| Shore It will continue, he said, even when the water breaks white, even when the surface currents seem to be going the wrong way. The river, I tell him, is gray, and the ocean is for others. I have crossed the river on stones and planks, while others swam, inviting me in and I dove just to please them, pretending I could swim too. My path is broken; the white caps are hard there are too many gaps, always I must find the connector: I use wire and wood and rusty nails, these broken rafts, whatever it takes to cross. I don’t know tides or currents, have never understood how the river flowed; perhaps it does not. There is only the leap, and my heart in my mouth: I can’t walk this hard water or swim, and I will never see land. I will be your dolphin, he says, and you will not drown. How can I explain that I am not afraid of drowning: I have drowned many times, come up, gasping for air, and dead, many times: What it is is that I can’t swim and the water is hard. It will continue, he says even when the water seems to be going the wrong way. >>>Halvard Johnson
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