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Posts Tagged ‘water’

Cenotes Day II

Cenotes : I may have found my new religion…

The water so clear and deep and you can dive in without a splash, and swim swim swim through all the cracks and crevices, get carried drifting into the caverns, waving to all the little fish and turtles.

If you could fit an entire summer into one afternoon…

Water so clean it purifies.

 

 

 

 

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Cenotes

I’m told a cenote is a deep water hole.

If you would’ve asked me, it would’ve translated to, loosely: “All you need for a summer afternoon. Bring your own cerveza.”

I swear, one of those dives felt like forever.

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I remember sneaking up to the attic when my parents slept with their door closed. I’d pull the bed out that the couch turned into and would flop, flipping from side to side, a king in his luxurious court, presiding over all of himself.

And then there was the time Philip came in and my flopping stopped. I’d been caught. Even the squirrels who would rustle back and forth on the roof throughout the night, they stopped too. He looked at me and said he was going out, that he wanted someone to know, just in case, he said. And I said to come home soon or Who cares what you do? I don’t remember which.

And I heard him creak down the stairs on all the ones I knew to avoid and felt the summer night creep in through the window as I heard his footsteps outside.

I was barely awake when he came back an hour later, smelling of lake water and the fullness of a lived summer night.

He came to say goodnight, but this time the crickets were louder than his steps. He sat next to me on the bed, dipping me toward his warm wet weight as the mattress creaked.

“I’ll have to show you stars sometime,” he said to me.

Here’s the thing though: I’ve always been much more cautious.

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“What do you think you’d call that?” I ask my nephew.

“I don’t know, a horn?” he says putting together a Lincoln log cabin.  

There is a train far off that you can hear every evening when dusk sweeps in, the time before dinner is cooked, after you have the lake water showered off and the canoe is put away, the time that everyone is ten pages into the next chapter or five moves in each to the chess game, another log just got tossed onto the fire and the crickets have just started singing.  It’s then that you hear the train.

“No,” I say.  “Horn is too harsh.  It’s softer than that, more nostalgic, like a remembrance of something lost.”

He stares at me blankly through his thick kid glasses, his hair sticking straight toward the ceiling, lake water and sand still there.  “You’re right.  It’s not a horn,” he says.

“Not a horn,” I say.

“It’s a choo-choo.”

“Yeah, a choo-choo.”

And he’s back to his log cabin as the train is far off and fading.

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