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It’s small in size but sturdy. Well-built enough to withstand the tides and ages, one in the same.

It’s rocked by a gentle but unrelenting current, bumping against the legs of the dock to which it’s tethered. The sound is pleasant, calming. It doesn’t hurt the boat.

It has two oars, oak. Polished but worn, meant to last. It has two small seats, no life vests underneath. None needed.

A tattered rope keeps it in place. The knot is sodden, not easily undone. But it can be.

The boat remains tied there, unused. Through many storms and many sunsets. It grows moss. It gets shat on. The sun bleaches the bird droppings and fresh piles cover over those. A spider has made an elaborate home under the seat at the bow. Many flies are not happy about this.

One day, footsteps approach the boat. They’re loud against the stillness. A person you recognize kneels and reaches for the knotted rope. Impossible, you think. They couldn’t. They wouldn’t.

The knot is suddenly undone. You watch as they coil the rope carefully, placing it beside their shoes. They step into the boat, one solid leg and then the other.

The boat rocks beneath their weight and steadies.

There’s a squeak as they remove the oars from their resting places and push off against the dock, slicing the still waters.

They are a few yards out when they stop rowing. They turn around, looking towards the shore as if they forgot something. They see you standing there and smile as you wave and call after them.

They face the horizon again and resume rowing. They must not hear me, you think. So you continue yelling, louder. But they continue rowing steadily, disappearing into a distant dot.

It falls dark while you stand there, waiting for them to return. You sit down on the dock and take hold of the rope, rubbing the warped part where the knot had been.

It occurs to you they’re not coming back.

You undress slowly and silently, letting your clothes drop around your feet. You take a deep breath and dive into the black water. It is cold but it feels good. It shocks something awake inside of you.

You spread yourself wide across the surface of the water and float, looking up. Looking up at the vastness of the night sky. At the millions of quaking stars, at the moon like a lighthouse. At the immensity of a sky that can hold so much darkness, and yet so much light.

P.S…ssst!

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Credits

Accompanying music: Water Memory 1 by Emily A. Sprague

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