by Adhara Mereles
H:
Held—the way you cradled me in my mother’s womb.
Home—you taught me to be present, to be at home in my body—from the moment I took my first swim lessons in Mexico City as a toddler—the small indoor pool like a soup bubbling with children reeking of chlorine.
Heal—your powers got to work, teaching me to float instead of sink, reminding me what it feels like to belong, to follow life’s current, to flow unafraid—your presence—my first love.
2:
2 years later I moved to San Diego—a four-year-old girl discovering the privilege of growing up alongside your rhythmic swells—you welcomed me with open depths—not minding where I came from—insouciant—you didn’t care I was an immigrant.
2 miles east and west of home, bay and ocean tides drew me in, drowning teenaged angst stemming from my queer sexuality—you hydrated my hangovers as I sailed along your seas and dipped into your waves.
2 different entities we may be, yet half my weight is you—always we—you + me = one.
O:
Oceanic embraces lifted me through loss—my divorce, my career, the sentimental rain of my most difficult years.
Oh, you lure me still, my middle-aged limbs splash into your lanes weekly, carving freestyle strokes into your glassy surface, goggles containing my tears as you pour forth from me—heart bursting with gratitude for you—your every shape and form…
Opening me, one plunge at a time, to self-compassion.
***
Adhara Mereles was born in Mexico and raised in California. She earned a bachelor’s degree from the University of San Francisco and a master’s degree from Columbia University. Her work appears in A Year in Ink, Volume 17. Beyond prose and poetry, Adhara enjoys photography, playing the piano, and discovering life alongside loved ones.
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