I’ll stare at the water with you until this boat stops rocking. I know seasickness and how it sticks to the roof of your mouth and dares you to swallow, how it’ll just come back up. I know how it threatens to tip this whole thing over, send us overboard with the wood and rope and sails that built this love. I know how you almost drowned while learning to swim, and how you never let go of your father’s shoulders since. How you’re doing the same with mine now. You never could learn how to float on your own. I’ll stare at the water with you until this boat stops rocking, until you put the life jacket down, until you don’t have this fear of falling. I know where this fear comes from, how it looks like soft boys with knuckles knuckles knuckles and the wind knocked right out of you. You have dreams of being held underwater, you tell me you die in most of them. So I’ll stare at the water with you until this boat stops rocking, until the wind turns whisper, until you see the sun on its surface instead of all the ways the dark could take you.
