Last night I dreamed that you'd learned to breathe underwater. Is it an awful thing to imagine? You told me that all you had to do was swallow up the water and spit out what you didn't need. I said I couldn't do it; I wanted to, but I'm still too terrified to ever swim again. After you went down, I stared forever at the spot where you descended. I sat for hours watching every bubble float along the surface. If only I'd jumped in, dared to break all the pretty water tension, everything might be different. It felt like days to me, but you know how watches never really keep time in places like this.
When you finally came back and stepped out of that frigid, empty water, I didn't know whether to cry or just shout at you. I really thought you'd stay down forever, and all I could remember when you were gone--the only thing that I could see when I peered so far down--were your cold and lifeless eyes that Tuesday morning just a year ago. And when you showed me all that golden treasure you'd found while you trudged along the bottom, I finally started bawling. You couldn't understand, and how could you? I just laughed and said that there was mud in your shoes again, but this time I was just too glad to have you back.