On the way to the sea,
she says she’s always been afraid of water,
since her father tried to drown her.
She’s never felt distain for him, though,
like what she must now see on my face.
I ask her to explain,
but she turns away.
Soon our van reaches the beach,
and we all pile out.
Hours later, at dusk,
she whispers that she will answer what I asked,
if I follow her down under the pier.
When walking with me nearer the water,
she hesitates, trembles.
She’d only sat and watched the rest of us swim all day.
Under the darkening pier, her eyes are wild.
I propose we retreat above.
But she only speaks of her father’s vision.
Her arms encircle me as the waves surge.
Her father tried to teach her to fear water
because he foresaw her drowning here, with me.
She’s not trembling now.
