We Waded Into the Dark Waters
There is a memory that has been haunting me for several days
The four of us waded into dark waters in the night. The moon was out, but not enough to make the darkness of water any less frightening. It was early summer on the East coast, late June on Cape Cod, at an inlet on the Buzzard’s Bay side. Mild days, cool nights, nearly empty beaches. Tourist season was not yet in full swing. I was with my partner, my teenage daughter, and my daughter’s best friend.
What a long night it had been. What a long life. Collectively, in the past few years, we had battled depression, death, abusive parents, addictions, divorces, racist attacks, anti-maskers, financial insecurity, lovers who had ghosted us, lost pets, encounters with sickness. We were wading into the water for a harmless nighttime dip, a bit of post-dinner fun. A simple and meaningless vacation experience. Nevertheless, we did it slowly.
Dinner had been a community affair. We were staying with a group of women I knew from California. They were the only Black family in this seaside town. Some mutual friends — poet and a memoirist — were also in the area. We would later learn they had come to town to elope. It was a happy occasion. We invited them to dinner. They came bearing dessert and good news of love. In one moment, I looked around the table and…
