Float Tank

 

I am floating in the dark,

incapable of sinking.

I almost think I like this.

 

Water has never really felt like a friend to me —

bodies of water, that is.

Water in a glass has been a mentor, a

therapist, a best friend.

 

Bodies of water – even the shower,

the tub – have sometimes felt like a threat.

 

I remember being in a boat –

all of us, with our most fun uncle –

on the St. Johns River,

before good sense dictated life vests,

and before any of us could swim.

Dusk came on.

My dad and his brother laughing at the alligator

bumping the bottom of the boat

while the outboard motor stalled again.

My mother’s terrified face set in a grim, angry line.

I was six; I took my cues from her.

If she was afraid, I should be, too.

 

But this, this floating in the dark,

Incapable of sinking,

this is different.

I feel safe.

I feel nurtured.

I feel calm.

 

This. Is. Safe.

 

I am separate from the world, floating in time and space.

There is nothing here but me.

 

This is a meditation.

 

There is nothing to see.

Nothing to hear.

 

Me, without the world.

 

The world is still out there,

but it is not in here.

 

I, only I, am in here.