![]() ![]() But she would have had a tune to hum to herself then, high and reedy, remembering river banks. She might have been more docile, vegetative even. They could have called her Syrinx and had her running in terror from musically inclined men with hairy legs. How seriously her parents considered the effect on destiny in the act of her naming, I don’t know. Think of her out on a moon yellow night, arrow notched taut in a bowstring and the taste of blood in her mouth. You are conscious of the coolness again, of how green everything is. Your eyes are wide open, but slowly everything goes black. It pushes you along in the direction of its current like an impatient auntie, but it won't let you to the surface. You want more than anything to live, to be able to rise again, but you keep falling. Water rushes into your lungs and floods them. The water's coolness is no longer soothing. The air leaks out of you in spite of your mightiest attempts to hold it. The density of your flesh has never been of such prime importance. There are shapes in the darkness, fronds of river weed waving, dark indescribable things that float and then sink with you. The world goes cool and green and you keep falling. ![]() You let the air out molecule by molecule, realizing for the first time how precious it is, this thing that feels so much like nothing, neither liquid nor solid. Air goes into your lungs and then you are under water. “This is what it's like to drown: You take a last look at the sky, a last breath, slowly. ![]()
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