When I see you,

I see an ocean, a body of water

without end. I imagine losing control,

nearly drowning in your depths.

(I almost drowned once in a backyard pool.

Flailing limbs reaching for a garden hose, chlorine biting the back

of my throat.)

For many months,

I stood at your shore and watched

how your tides came in,

only stepping in to knee height

reminding myself I don’t know

how to swim.

(The truth is, I learned to swim many years ago,

in back-to-back semesters of Swim Gym.

I learned how to pull my arms in close and then outward

in big arcs, gliding forward.

I learned how to kick with brute force,

how to swivel my head from left to right

catching air on either side.

And when I tired, I learned how to put my hips up and my head back,

so I could float.)

Then one day, in the back of the bus

after a long day of hot sun, dusk

pulled my head onto your shoulder

and I stayed.

When we hit a bump, and your hand floated to my cheek

to make sure I was okay

I wondered if I was being brave

or simply forgetting to be afraid.

(There was a moment when my body hit the bottom of the deep end,

looking up through the layers of water and sky and tree.

I felt peace.)

Later, when I told you how I felt

and the words started pulling me under,

your response was a life jacket:

Poco a poco, paso a paso

Like the philosopher Dory says,

Just keep swimming.

There is a fishing village on the coast of Jalisco

called Yelapa, named after an indigenous phrase meaning

where two rivers meet the sea

There, I asked the Moon how to cope with the tides

She said, don’t swim

Flow.

Follow me.